


Bruised

by ohimadeitallup



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Abusive Relationship, Alternate Universe, Angst, College Student!Sherlock, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Lawyer!John, M/M, Non-Consensual Cutting, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-consensual sex, Physical Abuse, Rape, Recreational Drug Use, Smut, Violence, non-con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-28
Updated: 2015-07-15
Packaged: 2018-02-06 14:05:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 24
Words: 40,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1860771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohimadeitallup/pseuds/ohimadeitallup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>READ THE TAGS FOR WARNING. THIS WILL CONTAIN MENTIONS OF AN ABUSIVE RELATIONSHIP AND ALL THAT ENTAILS.</p><p>John Watson, an employee at a successful law firm, finds his life turned around when a chance encounter with a complete stranger alters his perspective on life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Look, mate, I don’t even need this. We both know I’m only here to please my girlfriend,” John grumbled, as the physiologist poked and prodded at his shin. He hated hospitals- they reminded him of all the times Harry had OD’d at one of her ‘parties’ and he’d sat in the waiting room as they pumped her stomach out. Each time, she swore she’d never do drugs again. Yeah. That lasted.

“Mr. Watson, as your doctor it is my duty to make sure you can walk properly by the end of this week,” the balding man replied.

“Wish the lorry’d just killed me,” John muttered to himself.

“I’m sorry I didn’t catch that,” the doctor said absently, turning to his notes.

“Never mind,” John groused, hoping and praying for the hospital to spontaneously catch fire. At least that way he could go home and not face Mary’s stormy face. Again.

“Right. So your wife tells me-”

“Girlfriend,” John interrupted.

“Right,” the doctor agreed nonchalantly. “You’ve been experiencing pain in your right quadricep?”

John nodded, his face beginning to heat up. It had been last night. John was bent over balls deep inside Mary, his fingers gripping in her short blonde bob, her warm, wet heat all around him, when a sharp, shooting pain jolted through his right thigh, cramping his entire leg up. He couldn’t even move enough to pull out. Poor Mary had wondered if she’d hurt him in some way. It was supremely embarrassing for the both of them, but John could hardly talk and so Mary had had to phone the clinic, naked and breathless, relaying the entire incident. That was the thing about Mary- it didn’t bother her in the slightest to talk about sex- an advantage of being a nurse, he supposed. John, on the other hand, flushed up like a maiden at the mention of amorous activities outside the bedroom.

“Yeah,” John rasped, then cleared his throat. “The on call doctor last night gave me some Vicodin and told me to come see you first thing today.”

“Right, well,” the doctor said, still looking at John’s file and humming to himself. “Your X-Rays seem clear of any remaining fracture, so that can’t be the cause of it. Besides, if it was due to the broken fibula, you would most likely experience pain in the calf, not your thigh.”

John nodded dumbly, hoping the doctor would just give him more tablets and tell him to go. The back of his neck had started to prickle at the pungent scent of alcohol (not even the good kind) in the air.

“I’ll schedule you in for a CT scan this Friday,” the doctor continued. “Although I doubt we’ll find anything. As of now it seems at least partially psychosomatic, but I wouldn’t rule out a physical cause.”

After about twenty more minutes of medical explanations that John quite frankly didn’t get a word of, and another half hour of the doctor talking to the labs about pencilling him in, John was glad to be rid of the entire scene. Though he had initially planned to drop into Mary’s office, maybe coax a quick handy out of it, he now wanted nothing more than to get out of there before his brain convinced him to have a full-fledged panic attack.

Instead, he shot her a quick text.

**Got out of doc’s. Going 2 wrk. C u at home.**

He had one hand in his jacket pocket when his phone buzzed with a prompt reply.

Wt did doc say?

**CT scan on Fri. Explain 2nite.**

Finding his keys, he pocketed the phone and put on his helmet. Climbing on to the seat, he kicked at the starter pedal twice and the engine roared to life. This, right here, was the highlight of his day. The purr of the engine beneath his body, the security of the felt lining around his head- _this_ was what he lived for. It was always a heady rush, zipping through tight spaces, feeling the world buzz by backwards.

As he pulled out of the parking lot, John was mentally revising all the meetings he had to attend today. There were a few law firms to sign papers with, then some car dealership. Of course he had to pick his suit up from the dry-cleaners on the way home…

His train of thought was interrupted when his gaze fell on a pair of grey, nearly colourless eyes. They seemed so tired and lost, and John suddenly felt a wave of despair almost like a physical blow. He hit the brakes, putting his left foot down to balance the bike, and watched as the tall, slender man hobbled into A&E, clutching his right side. John couldn’t help but notice how this stranger made an effort to keep his back straight- almost as if he were trying to assert authority, which was such a strong contrast to the purpling bruise on his sharp cheekbone, John had to huff a laugh. The man walked on, oblivious to John (who was now openly staring at him from a distance), seeming perfectly at ease in these surroundings, and yet still looking so broken. And John couldn’t supress this unquenchable thirst to…. _fix_ the man.

The sliding doors of the A&E opened and closed, and John was suddenly alone- in a crowd of about thirty other people. He couldn’t fathom why, but he felt so utterly, unfathomably lonely. He had only felt this way once before- the first time they’d sent Harry off to rehab. He was only thirteen at the time, and losing his best friend had been a shock to his system. It had only served to remind him that relying on anyone but himself would only lead to pain and heartbreak, and ultimately, solitude.

Shaking his head, John kicked off again, zooming past crowded London streets till he got to the tall familiar building that kept food on his table. Going to the men’s room, he quickly switched out his leather overcoat for a suit jacket and ran his fingers through his hair, making sure to pat down the ends that had been sticking up due to the helmet. Working at one of the largest law firms in the country meant he had to be presentable at all times, especially given their relatively posh clientele.

He sat through meeting after meeting, including one with a limey bastard called Sebastian Wilkes who seemed entirely too pleased with himself today, especially given that there had been a break-in at the bank where he worked. John kept zoning in and out of the conversation- he was only there to watch and learn as of now anyway- and he heard a mention of suing some security company or other. The rest of the day was pretty much the same, and the fact that the weather had suddenly decided to go up by about ten degrees wasn’t helping his restlessness.

He went home to find a note taped to the refrigerator in Mary’s handwriting.

_Gone to book club. Might be late. Dinner’s in the fridge._

_-M._

“Dinner” consisted of Chinese takeout for the second time this week. He had it while watching old football reruns on the telly, then brushed his teeth and turned in for the night. His thigh still hurt, though the pain pills had reduced the sharp sting to a dull throb for now. As he lay his head on the pillow, his mind drifted to the events of the day, skipping backwards through all that happened and landing on the cloudy-eyed stranger. If John were a doctor, he would call the man traumatised. If he were a writer, he would call the man wounded.

If John were a romantic, he would call the man beautiful.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING FOR MENTIONS OF VIOLENCE AND NON-CONSENSUAL SEXUAL ACTIVITIES.
> 
> Wilkes is back, and this time he has a little problem...

It was late at night when Mary returned, smelling of wine and perfume like she always did after a book club meet. John, incoherent from sleep, merely grunted as she slid under the covers and kissed his cheek before snuggling into his side.

The next thing he remembered was waking up with a raging hard-on and butterfly kisses being pressed to his abdomen.

“Morning,” he rasped with a smile, fingers tangling up into silky blonde hair of their own accord.

“Looks like we have severe inflammation here, Mr. Watson,” Mary teased, her pretty pink lips parting to let the head of his cock slide in. John groaned and let his eyes fall shut as she began to suck and lick in all the right ways. It wasn’t long before he was gently fucking into her mouth, his other hand clutching at the sheets. Mary bobbed her head in time with his thrusts the way she always did, and a few minutes later he was coming down her throat, gasping loudly as his spent cock turned oversensitive.

Mary climbed over him to press a chaste kiss to his lips, but when he slid his hands down her body, she merely pulled back with a vague “We’ve both got work to go to,” and promptly got into the shower. Tonight, John swore, he would return the favour and she’d forget all about work, book club, even her own name.

 

 

Work that day was as monotonous as it was every Tuesday. The usual cases presented themselves- some he merely sat through while others he was actually involved in. Having been top of his class, John was often sought after to deal with paper work (which he hated) or client meetings (which he hated even more). Honestly, all he wanted to do was ride his bike and maybe go to the shooting range with someone who pushed him to aim faster and better.  He’d taken Mary once, though she had merely observed him, then attempted to shoot a few rounds herself and quickly left for some appointment or another. It had left John feeling unwanted, though he knew firearms weren’t everyone’s cup of tea. Or that’s what he told himself anyway. If only recreational activities paid as well as his job did.

Just as he was about to leave the men’s room after having changed into his leather jacket, he caught sight of that smarmy ass Wilkes. Said smarmy ass quickly paced towards him, his stupid fake grin plastered all over his fake face.

“Mr. Wilkes,” John greeted him, shaking his hand with an equally fake smile.

“Mr. Watson,” Sebastian replied, then asked, “John?”

“Of course,” the shorter man replied, slightly irritated. “Is something the matter? Is there new evidence concerning the break-in?”

“Hmm what? Oh no,” Wilkes replied, and now that his grin was gone, he actually looked quite flustered. “No. This is a- ahem- personal matter. Totally off the record. Is there somewhere we can talk?”

Sighing, John led the banker to his office, closing the glass door behind him. Once they were comfortably seated- well, as comfortable as you can get with someone so annoying sitting across from you- John rested his forearms on his desk and looked at Wilkes expectantly.

“So,” the oily voice said, “I might be getting arrested in the near future.”

John was taken aback by that. No, that was not sadistic joy he was feeling. Definitely not.

“Oh?” he asked. “What for?”

Wilkes hesitated a moment before saying, “Battery.”

John just raised his eyebrows, jutting his jaw out in a gesture that said ‘go on,’ as he leaned back into his chair.

“There’s this guy I’m seeing,” his client continued. “UCL, criminology.”

‘Paedo,’ was John’s very first thought. The man had to be at least thirty years old. What was he doing seeing a uni student?

“He’s quite smart for his age,” Sebastian hurriedly added, beginning to blush a little. “Anyway, we’ve done all sorts of things, you know, sexually speaking.” The man had the audacity to grin at that. Smug bastard.

John coughed awkwardly. This was a conversation he really, really wished he wasn’t having. Though so far it was only a monologue. He quickly took out a pen from his expensive pen-stand and began making notes. This was quickly going into rape and assault territory.

“Okay?” he asked.

“Right,” the man in front of him continued. “So I asked him if he was up for, you know, a foursome with two other women. And he agreed. Make sure to write _that_ down.”

“Did he agree under coercion?” John asked.

“What? No. Well, I had to convince him a little…”

“Were there any threats made?” John explained impatiently.

“No,” Sebastian replied quickly. Perhaps too quickly. John made sure to note that as well. He didn’t trust this man.

“Go on,” he urged.

“So anyway, these women had all these…toys. Whips and riding crops and handcuffs and whatnot.” Sebastian grinned again, this time a lot more slyly. “One of them had this arse, oh man…”

“And what happened?” John interrupted. He really, really didn’t want an awkward half boner in the middle of taking a case history.

“Right,” Wilkes said. “So anyway, halfway through the….session, the guy safe-worded. But he was so close, you know? So we kept going, okay?”

“Wait,” John interrupted again. “He safe-worded and you still kept going?”

“Yeah but that’s not the point,” Sebastian said, dismissing him with a wave of his hand. “So after it was over, the guy just up and leaves without a word, and the next thing I know, his dick of a brother’s threatening to have me killed?”

‘I wouldn’t blame him,’ thought John. If there was one thing he would never stand for, it was non-consensual anything. “So how do we come in?” he asked, indicating the establishment around him.

“Well,” Wilkes replied. “Get me out of it.”

“Mr. Wilkes,” John began, but was interrupted by Sebastian’s raised palm.

“Look I really don’t want you to involve your firm. Is there any way we can do this….privately?”

“That’s going to be really difficult, you see?” John replied after a moment of incredulity, his eyes now gone cold.

“Oh?”

“Yeah.” He wanted nothing more than to bash the arsehole up, but that would mean another assault charge he didn’t want to deal with. “For one thing, I’m bound to this firm by a work contract, which means that there’s really no way I can take on an independent case legally.”

“No-one has to know-”

“And for another,” John interrupted, “I don’t work very well with dickheads. Have a good evening, Mr. Wilkes.” And with that, he got up and walked to the door, holding it open with a deadly glare.

Sebastian seemed to splutter a bit, but hurried off without another word, leaving John to wonder how on earth this man had the balls to beat someone up and fuck them against their will. Poor sod must’ve been really, really weak.

Just as he was about to leave, the phone in his office began to ring. John ignored it, letting it go to voicemail. It was way past his office hours; he’d just deal with it tomorrow.

As he climbed down the stairs out of habit, another random phone rang on the floor before him. Man, someone was really desperate for a consultant. As he went lower, it stopped.

John was walking through the now dimly lit corridors to the entrance, when the receptionist’s phone began to ring. Oh for God’s sake! He picked up the receiver and was about to yell that they had closed for the day when a deep, ominous voice simply said, “That was a good decision you just made.”

“I’m sorry, what?” John asked.

“The fact that you turned Sebastian Wilkes down. Integrity is an unusual trait for a person in your profession, John.”

“Who’s this?” he asked, now starting to worry a little bit. How could someone know about an event that occurred mere seconds ago? “And where did you hear about-”

“Get into the car, Mr. Watson.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John meets a mysterious stranger- well I say "meets", it's more like he's coerced into the rendez-vous. More importantly, however, his life changes forever. Is it necessarily for the better?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note just to say thank you so much for supporting this! I'm extremely grateful for every hit, bookmark and comment! <3

The car- a Jaguar, John noticed absently- was ominous to look at, let alone be in. It fit its owner perfectly. Said owner, however, was still to show himself. For all the enigma surrounding this situation, John was disappointed to enter the car and not see a dangerous, seven feet tall, bearded man holding a machete. The replacement, however, was an attractive young woman in a low-cut blazer something-or-other and a pencil skirt, so he wasn’t complaining.

If John thought the car was ominous, the location it dropped him off at was fucking terrifying. It seemed like something of a cross between an abandoned warehouse and a factory missing machinery. In the bright headlights of the car, he could see the silhouette of a man leaning on what seemed like a walking stick- or was it a folded up umbrella?

“Good of you to join me, Mr. Watson,” the voice from the earlier phone call said.

“Well, since you asked so nicely,” John replied, his tone practically dripping sarcasm.

“Always the jester,” the man retorted, his face now getting clearer as John limped closer to him, his thigh beginning to make itself known.

Even though the entire scene seemed like something out of an average nightmare- scary enough, but also entirely illogical- John felt a familiar calm pass over him. This was how his body reacted to stress. Shut it all down, wait for the situation to pass, then have enormous panic attacks. He wondered if he’d been a soldier in a previous lifetime.

Now, barely two feet away, John noticed that the man was considerably older than himself. His hairline had begun to recede, wrinkles around his eyes and mouth setting in deep. He didn’t, however, look as intimidating to John as he was trying to. The lawyer wasn’t so easily scared.

The man pointed to a chair John hadn’t even noticed.

“Take a seat, John,” he ordered. John stood unmoving. “The leg must be hurting you,” he continued after a moment’s staring. “Sit down.”

“I don’t want to sit down,” John replied mulishly. He had a vague feeling that this stranger was sizing him up- assessing him, somehow.

“Very well,” the man went on, “What is your connection to Sebastian Wilkes?”

John wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all. “I could be wrong,” he said instead, “But I _think_ that’s none of your business.”

“It could be,” the man replied, a note of superiority entering his voice. Wow, someone had a power complex.

“It _really_ couldn’t,” John countered, trying to push all his buttons. He didn’t like this man at all.

“Trust issues, I see,” the considerably taller man replied.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“It’s why you haven’t proposed to Ms. Morstan yet, isn’t it?” the stranger asked, a sneer beginning to form on his thin lips. John really hoped the man had all his teeth. It would be a pleasure punching each one out.

“Who the _hell_ are you?” he demanded.

“An interested party,” was the reply. “There’s someone I want you to meet, and help- if he’ll let you, that is.”

With that, the man began to walk away, swinging his umbrella around his wrist and leaving behind a very confused, very nonplussed John Watson.

“I’m to take you home,” the woman from earlier in the car said from behind him, still clicking away at her Blackberry like she had been from the moment John clapped his eyes on her.

“Wait!” John shouted at the man. “What the hell was all this about? Whom am I meant to meet? And where?!”

The stranger stopped, turning around on his heel with a tiny, triumphant smile, as if he knew John couldn’t resist an unresolved issue. “You’ll find out soon enough, what this is all about. Tomorrow at about six o’ clock. As for the man,” he paused, making sure he had John’s attention. “The name’s Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street. Good evening, Mr. Watson.”

Without another word, the older man disappeared into the shadows.

 

 

“He said what?!” Mary’s voice was a fascinating contrast to the stark masculinity of the rest of his day. “You’re not going to actually go…”

“I have to,” John said. “Who knows what other tricks this man has up his sleeve if I don’t?”

“But John-”

“I don’t want him coming after you,” he asserted, placing his palms on her shoulders and looking her straight in the eyes to drive his point home. That wasn’t the truth though- or not all of it, anyway. He did care for Mary- loved her, even- but the fact remained that his curiosity had been piqued. “Look, Mary,” he continued, “This man knows something about Wilkes.”

“ _Sebastian_ Wilkes?!” Mary asked, sounding a little shocked.

“You know him?” John asked, equally shocked.

“Wha- _oh_ no. No, I’ve heard you mention him while talking on the phone is all.”

“Ah,” he said, much more at ease. “The first thing this man tells me is that it was a good decision turning Wilkes down. I mean the bastard basically raped a guy, not to mention abused him.”

“The guy consented to it, though, right?” Mary asked, her lighter eyes darting between John’s own blue ones.

“He safe-worded,” John replied, daring her to defy him. When she didn’t, he continued, “Besides, this man may also have something to do with the break in. I’ve got to go see him, love.”

“Alright, if you really must,” she grumbled, stretching her arms above her head to work the kinks out of her back. “Anyway, I’m thinking Italian for dinner. What do you think?”

“How about I cook tonight instead?” John offered.

“You?” she laughed. “Not that I don’t appreciate it, but when was the last time you actually entered a kitchen?”

“I can cook!” he almost whined. “I’ll show you. Go…draw yourself a bath or something.”

She conceded with a quick peck to his lips. “Sure you don’t want to join me?”

“Just go,” he laughed with a quick slap to her buttocks.

That night they decided their bellies were too warm and full to initiate anything remotely physical, let alone go through with it. With Mary curled up to his side, six pm the next day didn’t seem like such a daunting prospect anymore. If this Holmes character turned out to be a mass murderer, he knew of at least one person who’d attend his funeral.

 

 

Wednesday morning came with a flurry of activity. John woke to the sound of a smoke alarm and promptly ran out to find Mary having a row with the fire extinguisher, a pan holding a relatively small fire on the cooktop.

“When was the last time _you_ entered a kitchen?” John muttered, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

“Shut up,” she said, managing to put the fire out. “Just shoot the damned alarm, will you?”

John grabbed a nearby set of keys and threw it at the alarm. It didn’t work. “Fuck,” he grumbled, dragging a chair to stand on so he could manually turn it off.

The rest of the day was pretty much the same- fast-paced and irritating, though John didn’t much care. Luckily, Sebastian hadn’t shown up, and it seemed unlikely he ever would again. What occupied his mind, however, was the mystery awaiting him at Baker Street. He tried to convince himself that it would probably be nothing- nothing of use to him anyway- but he couldn’t shake the feeling that something big was about to happen that evening.

When the clock on his phone finally showed 5:30 (not that he was checking every other minute, not at all!), John dropped the legal notice he was going over for a client, grabbed his keys and quite literally left the building, only realising that he forgot to change out of his suit about halfway to the address.

The neighbourhood seemed relatively quiet, save for a few sirens here and there, and John felt rather odd riding a Davidson around there. He parked outside the black door that said 221B, locking his helmet on to the back of the bike, and waited to catch his breath, then walked up to the door and knocked. He didn’t fail to notice that the knocker had been tilted off centre- almost deliberately, it would seem.

The door was opened after some commotion, and a bright older woman appeared at the doorstep with a curious smile.

“Hello, erm,” John began. “I’m looking for a Sherlock Holmes?”

“Oh,” the woman said, smiling more firmly now. “Come in, come in.”

“Thank you,” he mumbled.

“ _Sherlock, dear!_ ” she yelled up the stairs. “ _Someone’s here to see you!_ ”

“ _Tell them to leave!_ ” a much deeper, velvety voice yelled back, and John was stunned into immobility. So he was ordered here, then promptly uninvited?

“Oh he doesn’t mean it,” the woman told John with a chuckle. “Just a bit moody, that’s all.” She gestured him up the stairs where he encountered an open door and no person whatsoever.

“Who are you?” the same deep voice asked, and John noticed it was coming from the sofa, though he couldn’t tell who, precisely, was lying on it.

“Uh…” he began. “I was sent by…”

“For God’s sake!” the voice yelled, and as John watched, a tall, wiry man rose from the couch, stalking towards him with a demanding expression.

In what seemed like a matter of seconds after John had knocked on that door, he was faced with a pair of all-too-familiar grey eyes.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The meeting we've all awaited has finally come to pass, and with it comes a shocking revelation John absolutely did not expect.
> 
> WARNING FOR MENTIONS OF RAPE AS USUAL. PLEASE READ THE TAGS FIRST!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do have a Tumblr where I'm taking requests for oneshots, so if you guys have any, head over to ohimadeitallup.tumblr.com and pop me an ask! :)
> 
> Thank you for all the kudos! <3

John felt like all the air had been sucked out of the room, leaving an infernal vacuum which would quickly morph into a black hole should he so much as blink. The man in front of him, while a spitting image of the one he saw walking into the Bart’s emergency room, looked a whole lot more put together, and quite a bit older now. His shirt was the colour of fine red wine under a suit jacket that seemed like it may have cost more than all of John’s own jackets put together. Hair artfully dishevelled, cheekbones high and chiselled (the left one still bruised), collar splayed open to display a pair of sharp clavicles- he seemed to know his assets and just how to use them, if his posture was anything to go by. Those clear grey eyes bore into his own, demanding answers, reading his expressions and seemingly sifting through his thoughts all at once.

“You,” John mouthed.

The man’s forehead wrinkled at that, a deep fissure forming just above his eyebrows. John- apparently hazily euphoric- wanted to run his finger along said fissure and smooth it out. He wanted to run his finger along the bruise on that cheek and ask if it hurt. He wanted to run his thumb along that plush bottom lip and- wait what?

“No,” Holmes replied.

“What?” John asked dumbly.

“I said, ‘No’. You think you know me from somewhere. Either you do, or you don’t. And I clearly don’t remember you- and I remember a _lot_ of things- so no, you don’t.”

“No,” John interrupted. “I do know you. You’re the guy from the hospital earlier this week.”

Holmes seemed to freeze at that, his eyes going cold, and for a split second John felt like a child again, asking his mother about Harry’s drinking habit. She had screamed that it was his fault they couldn’t give his sister any time, which had led to her seeking other means to grab attention, and that this was his to fix. Ever since, he’d learned to keep his mouth shut. And yet here he was, babbling like a baby.

“Did he send you?” the man asked suspiciously.

“If by ‘he’ you mean a rich, tall man who kidnapped me from my office building, almost certainly threatened me in a dark abandoned factory, and made me curious to the point where I couldn’t possibly not investigate further, then _yes,_ I’m talking about him.”

“Get out,” the taller of the two said, not trying to conceal the sudden ice in his voice.

John felt the anger rise in him, tired of being dragged around like a mule, and couldn’t take this shit anymore. “What the _fuck_?!” he yelled. “I’m not fucking going _anywhere_ unless you tell me what the fuck is going on.” John set his feet into the carpet, jutting his chin out and staring the stranger right in the eyes, ignoring the complete adoration at the startled look on the pale face in front of him.

Holmes took a step closer, trying to use his height advantage to loom over John as if to scare him- same as the kidnapper, then. ‘They must be related,’ he thought inwardly.

He felt the stormy grey eyes look him up and down, flitting from his jaw to his chest, down his body to his feet, then back up to meet his gaze.

“Sit down,” the man instructed, pointing at a comfortable looking chair with a Union Jack pillow on it. John punched at it a little, then sat, immediately heaving a sigh of gratitude on behalf of his leg.

“When did it happen?” Holmes suddenly asked, unbuttoning his jacket and sitting in the black leather chair that was positioned opposite John’s.

John just stared at him blankly.

“The accident,” he clarified.

“How did you-”

“Oh _please_ , it’s obvious,” the younger of the two replied.

“I want to know,” John insisted, aiming a challenging look at the relatively-less-of-a-stranger.

Holmes sighed dramatically, pretending to check his watch, then spoke at a speed John only hoped to comprehend. “Your limp’s pretty bad when you walk, but you don’t ask for a chair when you stand, as if you’ve forgotten about it. Suggests a temporary injury, almost certainly a fracture. You don’t, however, wear a cast, which says it’s been healed, therefore you should feel no pain, and yet you do. So the pain, and therefore the limp, is at least partially psychosomatic, which means the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Creases on the backs of your trousers and the sweat present on your head- and not the rest of your body- say you’re a biker. Biker, fracture- road accident. Obvious.”

“That,” John began, then took a deep, deep breath. “Was amazing.”

Holmes seemed taken aback by that, and asked, “You really think so?” as if he didn’t quite believe his conversational partner.

“Of course! It was extraordinary. It was _quite_ extraordinary,” John reiterated.

“That’s not what people normally say,” Holmes retorted.

“What do people normally say?”

“Piss off.”

John couldn’t hold back a giggle at that, soon progressing into full-blown laughter, as if his mind had decided that an appropriate reaction to an inappropriate man was hysteria.

“Look, Mr. Holmes-” John began.

“Sherlock, please,” he corrected.

“John Watson. John,” the lawyer said, proffering a hand that the other man took in his own, squeezing once. “Sherlock,” he repeated slowly, tasting the word, as if it were a privilege to say it. “Why am I here?”

“I supposed it’s about Seb,” Sherlock replied in a resigned tone.

“Seb…astian Wilkes?” John asked, surprised by the sudden mention of the name. Sherlock merely nodded, a sudden pained look flashing on his face- which he promptly tilted down, as if to hide it. “You know him?”

“Yes,” Sherlock mumbled, linking his fingers together in his lap, still staring at the floor.

“Uhmm…” John began, unsure of how to proceed. The man didn’t seem in a hurry to tell him anything, though, so he simply waited.

After what seemed like hours, but may have only been minutes, Sherlock looked up at John, his face now wiped clear of any expression. “He is the brother of one of my classmates. We first met five months ago, when he came around to pick his brother up, and then at a bar where I’d gone to gather….data. He took me to his place and we had sex. We’ve done it several times until recently-”

“Oh my God,” John gasped, interrupting the dispassionate stream. “You’re…. _him!_  You’re the guy he-”

“ _Don’t!_ ” Sherlock cut him off sharply. “Don’t say that word.”

John nodded mutely, unable to think of a single thing to say. What _could_ you say to someone in Sherlock’s place? Someone teeming with intelligence and- fuck it there was no other way to put it- _beauty_ , and yet so fundamentally broken? All John could think of was seven different ways to kill a man without using weapons- his bare hands would be much more preferable. It was a strange feeling. He’d literally only just met the man, and he was already thinking of killing someone for him.

“Sue him,” John blurted. “Take the fucker to jail and have him hanged.”

Sherlock looked shocked- second time today. John was on a roll! - then composed himself and simply said, “Mycroft will take care of that.”

“I’m sorry, who?” John asked.

“That man you met today- the one who ‘kidnapped you, threatened you and made you too curious to not investigate’,” Sherlock mocked amicably, then seemed irritated. “That’s my brother, Mycroft.”

“Your _brother_?!” John was rather taken aback himself. “So he’s not-”

“Not what?” Sherlock demanded.

“I don’t know, criminal mastermind?”

That made Sherlock smirk, an amused glint in his eyes. “Close enough. He practically _is_ the British Government. He can pull strings like an expert puppeteer.”

“Oh good,” John said, fractionally relieved. “It’s a good thing you went to him for help then.”

Sherlock looked extremely affronted, a sharp hiss escaping those petal pink lips. “I would _never_ , in _all_ of my _life_ , go to _him_ for help!”

John backtracked immediately, knowing hostile territory when he saw it, and simply shut up, waiting for the man- _boy_ , John reminded himself- to continue.

“He has surveillance trained on me,” Sherlock went on, pouting petulantly.

John nodded at that, pretending it was an entirely normal way to keep tabs on your family. Then, a sudden question struck him. “Sherlock, why Sebastian?”

“What do you mean ‘why Sebastian’?” Sherlock asked back, but John suspected he was only pretending not to understand the question.

“I mean,” he replied patiently, “You could have anyone you wanted. Anyone more handsome, a lot richer and a whole lot less of a jerk. How come you settled for Wilkes?”

Sherlock merely shrugged at that, looking away for a moment, then simply asked, “Tea?”

John took that as a cue to drop the subject. For now.

“Love some,” he said instead.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS FOR RAPE, ASSAULT AND NON-CONSENSUAL DRUG USAGE. PLEASE READ THE TAGS.
> 
> A sudden panic call has John seeing red. This is really not what he signed up for, but damned would he be if he were to leave now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so very sorry about the delay in updating this! I had hoped to upload a new chapter every two days, but the weekend got busy without my permission. :-/ Anyway thank you so very much for all the kudos! And please, please tell me what you think so far! Thanks! <3

By the time Friday rolled around, John’s leg had begun to settle down a little. It was inexplicable, and if John believed in miracles, he’d label this as one. He could walk for a little longer, climb a little faster, even managed to go to the bathroom without limping, this one time on Thursday. It had made him cry, though he had done so in a silent, manly way when Mary wasn’t at home.

The rest of his week after that fateful meeting was punctuated by random texts signed ‘–SH’ and John finally gave up on trying to figure out how on earth Sherlock had managed to find his number. Said texts ranged in subject from “Chemistry professor is having a baby. Husband doesn’t know yet” on Thursday morning, to “Mary needs your Vicodin,” that very night. At first, John had thought it was a jape at him, in that John was painful to live with. Later that night, however, he found himself texting back, “How did you know?!” It wasn’t graced with a reply, or followed by a single other text.

Now, lying in the CT scanner, John couldn’t stop wondering how the hell Sherlock had figured out Mary would have a body ache when she got home. Honestly, this was probably just him trying to distract himself from the claustrophobia of the scanner, but still. He swore to ask Sherlock the next time he saw the guy, then wondered why he would even want to see the guy. They literally had no reason to even know each other! Then again, John didn’t have very many friends, so it was just as well.

After the scan, he was ushered to his doctor’s office to wait for the results. It had been about fifteen minutes of John sitting there, twiddling his thumbs, when his phone began to vibrate in his jacket. He took it out and realised with some surprise- and also some nerves- that it was the very man he’d been thinking about.

“Hello?” he asked carefully, wondering why Sherlock had decided to call him instead of the usual texting.

“John,” the deep baritone said, and John was struck by how shaky Sherlock’s voice was.

“What’s wrong?” John asked, switching immediately into disaster-control mode.

“Baker Street,” was the simple reply, the voice a pitch higher. “Now, John.”

“Sher-” John began.

“Please!”

That did it. The doctor could wait. Hell, the _world_ could wait.

“On my way,” John said, fishing his keys from his pocket and depositing his phone in there. He jogged to his bike, climbing on to it in one fluid motion, and kick-started it.

John had never driven faster than he was right then, zipping in and out of traffic, down staircases and back-alleys, taking every shortcut he knew of. A thousand possibilities regarding Sherlock’s present condition raced through his head, and he almost knocked over a poor old lady carrying shopping. He barely waited to park properly outside the house and knocked urgently.

Mrs. Hudson opened the door, looking frightened for her life.

“Where is he?” John asked, a little rudely, but the woman understood better than most.

“Upstairs,” was the wobbly reply.

John squeezed her shoulder briefly with one hand, then ran up to the apartment. All the lights were off, and though dusk was only starting to set in, drawn curtains made the entire room dark enough that John couldn’t see his own hand if he held it up.

“Sherlock?” he asked, voice unusually loud in the quiet stillness.

A muffled sniff sounded from the direction of the sofa, so John took his phone out, using its dim light to guide him to the nearest light switch. There was a loud hiss as a relatively bright yellow light flooded the room, and John saw a ragged lump of a man huddled up on the floor beside the sofa, face hidden in his drawn up knees.

“Hey,” John said softly. “Are you alright?”

Sherlock looked up at him slowly and John froze where he stood. Those dove grey eyes which were always bursting with life were now vacant and listless and almost all pupil- seeing, but not observing. An impressive black eye was beginning to form on the left side of his face, and a new red, soon-to-be purple bruise lined his right jaw, all the way to his ear. His lower lip was split, and his nose had bled enough to cause a sizeable red stain on his pale blue t-shirt and the knees of his pyjama pants.

John rushed to his side, his ancient first-aid training kicking in, as he crouched in front of Sherlock and checked his vitals. His pulse seemed to be slightly slower than normal, though that might have been the effect of whatever drug he was on.

“What have you taken?” John asked, a slight note of anger creeping into his voice. While he had done a fair share of drugs in those golden days himself, a mere glimpse of Sherlock’s intelligence had him gagging to protect the man’s precious brain.

“Haven’,” Sherlock drawled, “They gave it t’me.”

John saw red. “Who did?” He was going to kill the bastard who did this to Sherlock.

“Him,” Sherlock huffed, then slumped forward, his forehead leaning against John’s chest.

John flailed slightly, suddenly off balance, then sat down properly, scooping Sherlock against him. “Who?” John asked again, softly this time.

“Seb,” came the muffled reply, as wiry arms wrapped around John’s waist. Sherlock shifted to climb properly into John’s lap, and this was going in a very, _very_ dangerous direction.

“Did he hit you as well?” John asked, trying hard to keep the pure rage from his voice, and failing quite spectacularly.

Sherlock flinched at that, but quickly settled when John began to rub his back soothingly as if he were an overgrown child. The taller man seemed content to rub his face against John’s shirt.

“Sherlock,” John called. “Did he hit you?”

“Yes.” Sherlock’s words were slurry. “‘N then he gave me a hit.” That seemed to make him laugh, and his entire wiry body shook under John’s arms. “Fucked me first though.”

John’s grip around his back tightened at that. “Who else?” he demanded.

“Woman,” was the short reply, then all of Sherlock’s weight dropped suddenly on to John’s much more muscular frame as he passed out. Right. That was that, then. He’d tend to the dried blood tomorrow.

John pushed Sherlock to lean against the sofa and got up to his feet. He debated putting Sherlock on the sofa, then decided that bed really would be the better option, especially given the many injuries the man had, and many more that John hadn’t been able to check for yet. Taking a deep breath, he hefted Sherlock on to his left shoulder in a fireman’s carry and walked the short distance to the only visible bedroom in the apartment. Lucky for him, the door was open. John was quick to place all six feet of drugged college boy on to a rather neat double bed that seemed to swallow him up. He looked at the boy’s face and every cliché about people seeming younger and prettier and a lot more relaxed while the slept came to the forefront of John’s mind and, for what may have been the thousandth time, he wondered why someone like Sherlock would pick someone like Wilkes to sleep with.

A sudden flare of anger surged within him again at the thought of that sick, conniving bastard and John was about to turn and go hunt the fucker down when a frail hand touched the back of his own.

“Stay,” Sherlock rasped, barely awake.

“There’s something I need to-”

“Don’t leave me alone,” the younger man nearly begged, and a part of John died within him.

“Never,” he said- vowed- and sat on the bed next to Sherlock.

John shot out a quick text to Mary.

**Staying @ Sherlock’s 2nite. He’s badly injured. Don’t wait up.**

Just as he was about to look around the room, his phone vibrated with an answering text.

Why can’t his brother tk care of him?

**Dunno. Cn’t contact him. Expln l8r.**

Landlady?

**She’s 2 old. Just 1 night. Srry babe.**

Pocketing his phone, John helped himself to a quick tour of Sherlock’s bedroom. There was a large print of the Periodic Table- which made sense, given that Chemistry was Sherlock’s favourite subject. A few insects and arachnids had been suspended in jars containing formaldehyde which, admittedly, was morbid- but then again the mantel piece held a skull, so John wasn’t putting anything past him.

A loud snort sounded from the bed and John turned around to find long, gangly limbs wrestling with the comforter John had forgotten to put on them. All of a sudden, Sherlock had fallen off the bed and stood upright, almost in one single motion.

“Where is she?” he asked, staggering where he stood.

“Where’s who?”

“The woman. That woman.”

“What woman?” John asked, now worried that Sherlock had been hallucinating.

“ _The_ woman. The _Woman_ woman!” Sherlock yelled.

“Oh wait you mean the one who….was here before?” John chose his words carefully, hoping not to trigger a panic attack.  He was trying to ensure that Sherlock slept this high off, then he could get some proper answers in the daylight.

Sherlock nodded jerkily, then froze and widened his eyes, pupils now significantly smaller than they were a while ago. Seemed like it was beginning to wear off already. He then focussed on John’s face, as if only acknowledging his presence now. “Couch,” he said succinctly, and John took that to mean that Sherlock needed his privacy.

“Only if you go back to bed,” he insisted. Sherlock seemed like he would keel over any moment, so John quickly supported his weight, helping him into bed and making sure to pull the duvet over him this time. “You’ll be fine in the morning. Just sleep.”

“Of _course_ I’ll be fine. I _am_ fine. I’m _absolutely_ fine,” Sherlock mumbled.

“Yes, you’re great,” John said affectionately. “Now I’ll be next door if you need me.”

“Why would I need you?” Sherlock sighed incoherently, slumping further into his pillow.

“No reason at all.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **WARNINGS FOR RECREATIONAL AS WELL AS NON-CON DRUG ABUSE, AND COERCION. PLEASE READ THE TAGS**
> 
> John finally learns the convoluted truth behind a complicated relationship.

John woke up with a crick in his neck, which he identified with sleeping on the couch after countless fights with Mary. This time, however, there would be no make-up sex to wake her up to. Bugger.

It took him a few minutes to reorient himself and last night’s events suddenly came pounding back to him. Oh no. _Sherlock_. John sat up quickly, looking around the flat for a sign of the man.  When he didn’t find any, he got up, stretching his back out, and walked to the closed bedroom door, quietly turning the doorknob and peeking in. Sherlock wasn’t in there, either. The light across the stained glass shower door was off as well.

“Sherlock?” he called. “Sherlock, you in?”

There was no response. He paced back to the sofa, picking up his jacket and fishing for his phone. He scrolled through his contacts (of which there weren’t many) and called Sherlock.

“John,” came the deep voice after barely a ring.

“Where are you?” John demanded. “I’ve been worried _sick_ -”

“Nicotine patches,” Sherlock said concisely, as if that was supposed to make sense all on its own.

“What?” John asked, confused.

There was an annoyed huff from the other side, then, “I’m out buying nicotine patches. Help me think. Impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days. Bad news for brain work.”

“Good news for breathing,” John countered.

“Ah breathing,” Sherlock replied, now sounding like he was walking. “Breathing’s boring.”

“Are you coming home soon?” the lawyer asked.

“On my way,” was the curt response, before the line went dead.

Putting his phone down on the sofa, John looked up to notice a spray painted smiley on the wall. It didn’t look happy at all. Wait. Were those bullet holes? Where on earth did Sherlock get access to a gun?! John wondered if he’d ever get around to figuring the grouchy genius out- or if he was just one of life’s great mysteries. Either way, he _was_ British and would need tea the second he stepped into the flat, so John set about trying to find a kettle.

Once the water was boiling, John opened the refrigerator door, only to close it immediately and swear in shock. He opened it again, just as a shadow darkened the front door to the flat.

“There’s a head,” John announced, then louder, “A severed head!”

“Just tea for me, thanks,” Sherlock said, tucking his scarf into his coat pocket and putting the coat on to a hook.

“Sherlock,” John said patiently through gritted teeth. “Why is there a _bloody_ head in the fridge?”

“Where else was I supposed to put it?” the younger man asked petulantly. “Coagulation of saliva requires a lower temperature.”

“But of course!” Sarcasm was thick in John’s voice. Sherlock pretended not to notice.

John quickly fixed them both tea, steeling him for potential deadly bacteria in the milk, then sat down in his chair. John was surprised at that thought- since when had that ruddy old piece of furniture become _his_ chair? This was literally the second time he was in Sherlock’s house! He chalked it up to a Freudian slip, eager to mention the elephant in the room. Sherlock, meanwhile, was busy scrolling through his phone, pointedly ignoring John’s gaze.

“So,” John said after a full minute of trying to grab Sherlock’s attention, and cleared his throat.

Sherlock groaned. “You’re a ‘Talk-it-out’ person, aren’t you?”

“Most certainly,” the shorter man said, chin jutting out in defiance. “I am also very stubborn so don’t try to prevaricate.”

“I see why you get into so many fights with your girlfriend,” Sherlock sneered, taking another sip of his tea.

“What? How-” John suddenly realised that Sherlock was, in fact, trying to prevaricate. “No. Don’t even start with me, Sherlock.”

“When I said ‘couch’ last night, you understood immediately and went without a word. Obviously you have a lot of experience sleeping on furniture apart from your bed. Now why would a man not sleep on his own-”

“Sherlock!” John interrupted loudly, an angry set to his eyebrows and mouth. “I am _not_ leaving here unless we talk about what happened last night, and you _clearly_ want me out of your hair, so it’ll be easier for the _both_ of us if we just get this over with.”

Sherlock took a deep breath, mouth twisted in a grumble. “Fine,” he conceded putting his tea cup away. “What do you want to know?”

“Most importantly?” John asked, putting his own cup down on the end table. “Why the hell you let that arsehole into your house.”

Sherlock looked taken aback, as if he didn’t know the answer to that; and Sherlock knew the answer to _everything_. “He said he wanted to talk,” he mumbled, looking down at his lap.

“Did he? Want to talk, I mean.”

“No,” Sherlock conceded, curling into himself a little, then straightening back up purposefully, as if he noticed the unconscious impulse. He looked straight at John, gaze unflinching, and said, “I underestimated his intellect and…”

“And what?” John asked softly, leaning forward to put his elbows on his knees.

“And her strength,” Sherlock said almost inaudibly, looking back down. Lucky for him, John was focussed entirely on his face.

“Whose strength?” the lawyer prompted when no further detail was forthcoming.

Sherlock looked up for a minute, as if trying to imagine how John would react to his next words, then looked at the floor and said, “Not important.”

“Not impor- for _God’s_ sake, Sherlock!” Talking to the boy was near impossible and John was at the end of his patience. “Fine,” he said, taking a deep breath to ease the frustration down. “We’ll discuss that later. What happened next?”

A familiar deep fissure formed above that regal nose, and pale grey eyes flitted over everything in the room except John. The dark purple shirt rose under a black suit jacket as Sherlock took a deep breath as if to say something, then just exhaled and said nothing.

“Sher-”

“I _can’t_ , John,” the younger man nearly whispered, then looked up into blue eyes with such a shattered expression on his face that John had to walk across the room and kneel in front of him- suddenly so much younger- like he had last night. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, moisture beginning to drip off his lashes, and John cupped his fragile face in two large palms. “I can’t-”

“Shh,” John soothed, rising up on his knees so a dark mop of hair could bury itself into his chest. He rubbed his hands over Sherlock’s back like he had hours ago, and said, “You’re okay, now.”

“No, I’m not,” Sherlock sniffed, voice heavy, then pulled back, looking so lost, and John wanted to hide the boy in his ribcage and keep him safe from the world.

“You will be,” he promised, smiling sadly, at a loss for words.

Moments passed with John between Sherlock’s knees, rubbing soothingly at his thighs and arms, then Sherlock took a deep breath, steeling himself, and said, “He supplied to me at first.”

John stilled at that. “You mean…”

“Cocaine,” Sherlock clarified. “Although occasionally heroin as well. All intravenous.”

“Oh,” was all John could say. Truth be told, he was a little disappointed, but tried not to show it.

“I had quit, though,” Sherlock continued, rubbing at his reddened nose. “Wasn’t addicted anymore. Used sex for a high instead. It clears the mind.”

John sat back, a sudden strange emotion filling him up- one he couldn’t quite identify. “That’s why you slept with him.”

“Paid to sleep with him,” Sherlock explained. “Bought sex instead of drugs.”

“Of course he let you,” John muttered grouchily.

“It was a business transaction.” Sherlock’s voice was very matter-of-fact. “But then…”

John straightened up, realising the importance of the impeding conversation.

Sherlock took another deep breath, then huffed a humourless laugh. “This isn’t easy,” he said wryly, and John nodded solemnly. Sherlock exhaled loudly again, then said, “He wanted to have a foursome. I was uncomfortable about the fact that there would be women involved, but when he mentioned the BDSM, I refused.”

“Wait, what?” John was aghast. “He told me you had agreed to it!”

“Not initially, no,” Sherlock corrected. “I said I didn’t want anything to do with it, but then he-”

“Then he what?” John demanded, anger making his question sound like a command. Sherlock looked up, taken aback by the tone of his voice.

“He threatened me,” said the younger man automatically, his ivory skin almost translucent. “Said he’d force me to shoot up and that all of the rehab will have been for nothing.”

“That fucking-”

“I folded,” Sherlock interrupted, voice weak. It was a solid contrast to the usual authority in his tone. It worried John deeply. “Just like he expected me to. But I couldn’t go through with it again, John. It’s a terrifying thing, addiction; it consumes you and makes you like it.” Sherlock’s eyes had begun to well up again and John touched his hand.

“Do you feel like you need another hit?” John inquired softly. “After last night, I mean.”

“Not yet,” Sherlock conceded. “But I don’t know if it’ll stay that way.

“I’m gonna make sure he’s locked up,” John promised. “I’ll see to it that the bastard- and this lady accomplice of his- go to prison and never see their homes again.”

Sherlock huffed dryly at that, but said nothing.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock did a thing. John is not pleased with the thing. John suggested something. Mary is not pleased with the thing....

Two weeks passed without incident- that is, Mary had given John the cold shoulder for not coming home for about a week from that night, and Sherlock hadn’t contacted him beyond the usual random deduction. So, as far as John was concerned, all was right with the world. He had, however, volunteered to mow the lawn as repentance, which was what he was doing on an unusually bright Tuesday.

Given that there were no cases he was actively involved in, and that the ones he was assisting on, he could catch up with the next day, John had taken a day off- his first in over a year. It was perfect so far. He’d woken his beautiful girlfriend with a kiss and a cuddle, made them waffles for breakfast _and_ done up the dishes. They’d agreed to take a long bath together later that evening, and Mary had left for the hospital in a rush of more kisses and “see you”s.  So yes, John thought as he watched sheared off blades of grass get discarded, all _was_ right with the world.

After he stepped away, looking at the lawn from a distance and pronouncing it ‘Done!’, John went straight to the kitchen to fix himself a glass of iced tea. Just as he was mixing sugar into his glass, a buzzing sound from his phone on the counter alerted him to an incoming call. It was, of course, from his new best friend, who distinctly preferred texting.

“Sherlock?” he said into the phone without any preamble. “What’s happened? Is everything alright?”

“Are you busy?” was the counter question, which was even more unusual because Sherlock _never_ cared whether or not he was disturbing someone. He barged right into their day and forced them to make the time for him- that was who Sherlock was!

“Is that code for something?” John asked, now most definitely worried.

“Hmm? Wha- oh no. No, I was only wondering if you could come around Baker Street.” Sherlock sounded rather hesitant. Yup. Something was definitely up.

“On my way,” said John, grabbing for two sets of keys.

***

Baker Street, as always, was relatively quiet. 221B, however, was filled with soft, melodious music coming from upstairs. John could hear a violin wailing as a woman would under her lover’s hands, and he took the steps two at a time to find his friend’s back clad in pyjama bottoms and a blue silk dressing gown. And sure enough, he was holding a violin with his left hand, coaxing beautiful notes out of it with his right. John stood mesmerized as the taller man seemed to pull just the right sounds out of the strings- like a good lawyer would pull the right words out of the opposing plaintiff, John thought, smiling to himself. A translucent reflection in the window showed that Sherlock had his eyes closed, completely engrossed in his own melody, and John had never seen a sight more entrancing. Somehow, despite all the chaos of papers and test tubes strewn around, it _fit_.

The last few notes wound down, and Sherlock seemed to uncoil, his back no longer stiff, and he simply, quietly, said, “John.”

“Uh,” the shorter man said, a little thrown at the sudden shift in the atmosphere. “Hi.”

Sherlock pointed at the chair John might as well have bought himself, with his bow, and John, as expected, moved to fluff up the pillow and settle down in it.

“So what’s up?” John asked, watching his friend pack the violin back into its case.

“Tea?” Sherlock offered, prevaricating like he always did, when he wished to stall John.

“You really want to make us tea?” The older man raised an eyebrow in the ‘you-don’t-fool-me’ way that he head.

Sherlock groaned, leaving the case on the sofa and going to sit in his own chair. “Fine,” he said, then took a deep breath, resolutely _not_ looking at John. “I did something…”

John’s radars began to beep at that. Sitting up straight, he leaned forward and said patiently, “What did you do?”

“You’re working on a case for the bank Seb works at, yes?”

As much as John knew Sherlock was merely trying to divert him, it gave him a not-good feeling to hear that pet name. The smarmy dickhead did not deserve a nickname, _especially_ not from Sherlock!

John sighed resignedly, and said, “Sherlock-”

“It’s relevant,” Sherlock interrupted, then paused a moment, as if deciding how to frame his thoughts- of which there were an insane amount. “I offered to help,” was the curt conclusion.

“You offered to help,” John repeated, hoping it would make sense if said a second time around.

“I have a very specific set of skills,” Sherlock said quickly. “Not many people have any use for them. Deductive reasoning doesn’t seem very fascinating to the common man.” He paused to shoot a short smile at John, and before the lawyer could wonder why, he ploughed on, “This case, though, John, I can _hear_ it calling my name. No doors had been opened, no alarms sounded. It’s perfect!”

“No,” John said firmly, and it half killed him to watch the light in his friend’s eyes fade, and that porcelain face contort into a frown. “You’re not ‘ _helping’_ out with this, and that’s that.”

 “Wasn’t actually asking for permission,” Sherlock stated, sitting up himself, as if to look down upon John. “I merely wished to inform you.”

“Why?” John asked, now slightly offended.

“What do you mean ‘why’?” Sherlock seemed a little thrown, a confused set to those plush lips. John had given up trying to rein in his thoughts, freely fantasizing now. He could live with the guilt of basically mentally cheating, if it meant he was allowed to appreciate beauty when he saw it.

“Why did you ask me to come here if all you wanted was to ‘inform’ me?” He would deny it to his grave, but John was most definitely pouting now, terribly displeased with the current situation.

“Well because-” the dark haired man seemed at a loss of words, his pale eyes flitting around the room, as if looking for meaning in objects.

“Look,” John said, calming himself down a little. “You called me here for an opinion-” He raised a hand to cut off Sherlock’s interruption- “ _Regardless_ of what your ridiculous brain makes you think, you do actually need advice sometimes.”

Sherlock scoffed at that, picking at his armrest.

“If you see him again, he’s only going to hurt you-”

“I’m not a _child_ , John,” Sherlock sneered, looking highly offended.

“From an attorney’s perspective then,” John switched tracks. “The chances of him turning a phrase and getting you to say things you don’t mean- ever considered that?”

Sherlock, once again, seemed taken aback. “I…. hadn’t thought of it that way,” he confessed, and coming from Sherlock, that might just be the highest flattery John had ever received.

“Clearly.” John let his smugness show, just a little bit, and that annoyed the younger genius to no end.

“Really, John, do you have a point?”

“Don’t do it,” John said concisely.

“John!” Sherlock whined petulantly.

“Alright,” John conceded. “I’ll go with you.”

Sherlock grumbled to himself, pouting rather loudly, then muttered, “Fine.”

***

“He can bloody well go by himself!” Mary yelled, jerking the comforter off the bed angrily.

“You _know_ what the guy did to him,” John said, subdued. That was always his natural setting while arguing with Mary- a survival technique, really. Let her vent, uninterrupted, then explain when she was calmer.

“Yes, and if he’s stupid enough to go back for more, he’s basically asking for it,” she grumbled, and that was it. John threw the bunch of pillowcases he was holding, hard on to the bedroom floor.

“Do _not_ say that again,” he said, a threat creeping into his voice. “Don’t _ever_ call him stupid again, do you understand?”

Mary froze where she stood, unused to being yelled at, much less chastised. “Oh,” she said, raising an eyebrow challengingly. “Is that how it is now?”

“Yes,” was all he said, before grabbing his keys and his helmet and going out for the night. He could do with a pint- or eighty.

***

 

John was on his second shot of the night when a tall man in a moderately expensive suit came up to him. Through the slight haze, John made out a short cropped hair cut and tan lines at his collar. Travelling for business, then. John was surprised at his own deduction. Sherlock was rubbing off on him after all.

“Mr. Watson,” the man said in a deep voice, “Mr. Holmes wishes to see you.”

John giggled a little. “I’ll give him credit for the timing,” he said loopily. “Why can’t he come see me?”

“Mr. Holmes prefers his solitude,” the stranger said curtly. “Now, if you’ll follow me.”

The man led him through the back of the bar, down a dimly lit corridor into one of the private rooms in the back that they reserved for supremely posh parties.

John was a little perplexed. Could Sherlock not just text him? Why did he have to send a mysterious tanned man- he giggled at that as well- to fetch him? Unless, of course…

“Have a seat, John,” said the one voice he absolutely did _not_ need to hear tonight.

Given that he was finding it hard to stand without tipping slightly to one side, John took Mycroft’s advice and sat on a leather sofa in a darkened room. Not suspicious at all!

“So,” Mycroft said with no preamble- no greeting, either. “My brother seems to have made a rather…. _irrational_ decision.”

“He’s stupid,” John said, then froze. The irony of having yelled at Mary for the same comment did not escape him, regardless of the alcoholic daze.

“I’m sure you do not mean that,” said the older Holmes, mildly. “Either way, I must ask a favour of you.”

“Of course!” John smiled a wobbly smile. “Anything for my Holmies.” He laughed again.

Mycroft’s answering smile was tight and forced. “I need you to go with him, John. Stay with him through every conversation he has with Wilkes.”

“Hey,” John pouted. “That was _my_ idea!”

“Also,” Mycroft continued, ignoring the lawyer. “Look into Wilkes’ desk for any document, any piece of paper, _anything_ regarding that night.”

John sobered up immediately, realising that he had an ally in Mycroft after all. He nodded seriously.

“I’ll take care of it,” John promised.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John worries about his mental health. Constantly. Sherlock, on the other hand, worries about the break-in at Shad Sanderson. Sebastian Wilkes ensues...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another quick reminder that I am taking drabble requests on my tumblr, ohimadeitallup.tumblr.com , so head on over there if you have a request!
> 
> And thank you so very much for everyone who's read so far! <3

“But how can that be?!” John asked incredulously, staring at his doctor as if the man had grown a second head.

“I don’t know,” said doctor replied with a confounded shake of his head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Watson, but the pain does seem to be psychosomatic. The scan showed no lesions or nerve damage- no physical sign to explain your discomfort.”

John looked into a distance, wishing any of this made sense. He’d have to get Mary to explain all of this ‘psychosomatic’ business later. For now, however, all he needed to know was, “So this is all in my head…”

“In a nutshell, yes,” the greying physician said, scribbling on to a piece of paper. “Here’s the phone number of my friend, Ella, who is a great psychologist.”

“You want me to see a shrink,” John said.

“It does seem to be the logical course of action,” the doctor said, and John wanted to punch something. He wasn’t insane! He didn’t need therapy!!!

John left the hospital, muttering to himself, then caught himself muttering and said, “Maybe I _do_ need a shrink after all.”

By the time John got home, it was about 8 pm, and Mary was off at her book club like she would be, every Thursday. He left his jacket and helmet by the door, glancing at the refrigerator for any notes Mary may have left, then went straight into the shower. John ran the water for a while, letting it warm up, then divested himself of his shirt, undershirt, trousers and boxers, stepping into the spray and positively moaning as the hot water hit his back, relieving the tension of the day.

After soaping up his arms and chest, it only made sense that his hand went straight to his dick, giving it a few lazy pulls to check if it was interested. It really, _really_ was, so John leaned forward to rest his head against the shower wall, looking down as he stroked himself a little more purposefully, imagining his hand to be Mary’s mouth. Correction: _trying_ to imagine it to be Mary’s mouth. It felt extremely odd- on the one hand, his body was rather obviously turned on, but he felt an emotional disconnect, almost like his heart wasn’t in it. Sighing, he gave in to his body’s impulse, blindly chasing an orgasm now. If he came to the thought of sharp, piercing eyes and dark, tousled hair, he wasn’t going to mention it.

Fixing himself a quick dinner of sandwiches and beer, John sat down in front of the telly to catch up with the football. Half an hour later he was dozing on the couch, empty plate forgotten on the coffee table.

After what seemed like an eternity, John woke to his phone buzzing once on the table- he was a rather light sleeper. The clock on his lock screen stated it was 11:30 pm. There was no sign of Mary in the house. There was, however, a text from her.

Meeting ran too late. Staying over at Angela’s. See you tomorrow. Xoxo

Sighing, John rubbed at his eyes sleepily. He turned the telly off and picked up the used plate and empty beer bottle, putting them away before heading to bed. Just as he was about to go back to sleep, however, his phone buzzed with another incoming text.

**_Shad Sanderson tomorrow at 12. Don’t be late. –SH_ **

John smiled drowsily, firing back a quick “Okay I’ll be there.” before falling blissfully asleep.

***

John woke up early the next day, deciding to go for a walk before work. He was going to fix his leg if it was the last thing he did. He rode his bike to a nearby park, trying as hard as he could to keep from limping. It wasn’t working. The pain in his thigh was verging on excruciating by the time he’d gone half the way across the gravel track, and John had to sit down on the nearest park bench to catch his breath. He rubbed his palm over his right leg, the soft fabric of his track pants heating up under the friction. He massaged and kneaded at the muscle, yet nothing changed. John resigned himself to sitting on the wooden bench for a bit, sighing as he leaned against the back rest.

This was nice, he thought. Feeling the sun on your face, the smell of freshly mown grass in the air- he could get used to it. He sat back, enjoying the sounds of birds and people as they passed him by, and just indulged in a moment’s serenity like he probably hadn’t done in years.

Once the pain subsided sufficiently, John staggered back up to his feet, slowly walking back the way he came. Today was not the day he crossed the entire park. It was a slow crawl, navigating through an increasing crowd of children and adults alike, but he finally made it to his bike, climbing on and going back home. Work was going to be a delight today, he thought bitterly.

After a quick shower and shave, John put on a salmon coloured checked shirt and black trousers, and put his jacket into a garment bag before setting off for the day. His only consolation was that he would be seeing Sherlock in a while, although that was a whole different situation he’d rather not think of in the midst of client meetings.

The meeting about the Shad Sanderson break-in was a lot more annoying with a different representative- and that was saying something, knowing Sebastian Wilkes- since John had to explain the entire situation all over again, so he was beyond relieved when the clock struck eleven thirty.

He made his excuses, checking out of the office and handing the rest of his day’s meetings over to Sarah, who wasn’t very pleased at all. John switched coats quickly and drove over to the large glass-paned building, parking a few paces away from it. Through the walls, he saw a familiar dark coat beneath a familiar mop of black hair, and he couldn’t help the small smile that crept on to his face.

Pushing the door open, John looked up, gauging the number of floors and admiring the poshness of it all.

“John,” Sherlock said coolly, nodding towards an escalator, and John followed immediately, because that was what they did.

“Don’t-” John began.

“Yes,” Sherlock interrupted.

John huffed at the smart-arse, and tried again, “Don’t-”

“Yes,” Sherlock interrupted again.

John sighed, giving up and standing in silence as the escalator took them up to the reception.

“Sherlock Holmes,” his friend said, and the receptionist smiled and nodded, leading them to one of several glass cabins, where Wilkes was sitting at his desk. He smiled predatorily as he spotted Sherlock, but it died out the second his gaze fell over John. His posture stiffened suddenly, and the following smile was obviously fake.

He gestured to two chairs in front of the wooden desk, and Sherlock and John sat down side by side.

“I can get you something to drink, if you like?” Sebastian asked rather suggestively, leaning towards Sherlock.

“We’re fine,” John said firmly, knowing that it would raise Wilkes’ hackles and taking joy in the sour look that crossed the banker’s face.

“Right,” Sebastian muttered, shuffling around the papers on his desk and clearing his throat.

“Tell me about the break-in,” said Sherlock, a little taken aback by the scene that just unfolded.

“Oh,” Sebastian intoned, looking way smugger than John was comfortable with. “Can’t _deduce_ it for yourself?”

The only reason John was still in his chair and not across the desk, bashing the man’s brains in, was that Sherlock genuinely wanted to solve this case. And so he sat put, clenching his fists and grinding his teeth.

“I prefer a first-hand account so I can check for all that you so spectacularly failed to notice,” Sherlock replied, equally smug. Sebastian spluttered, his cheeks flushing up a little, and John had never been prouder. He smiled, unabashed, and Sherlock looked at him, winking once- and, consequentially, setting off a string of varying sensations in his body.

“Follow me,” Sebastian mumbled, getting up to button his shirt and leave the cabin.

Sherlock followed after him, and John took the opportunity to do as Mycroft had asked earlier, quickly rustling through all the papers on the desk. They were all work related. He rifled through the drawers on the left, finding nothing but more work related files, same as the top two drawers on the right side. The last drawer, however, had a few random papers with phone numbers and other reminders scribbled on them. At the bottom of them all was a single black, embossed visiting card with three words neatly printed in silver lettering.

**Irene Adler**

**Dominatrix**


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little more work on the case, and John comes to a sudden realisation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***I'm only going to alter the Blind Banker case a little bit, since that is not meant to be the main focus of this fic. There's a reason it's not tagged casefic, so you guys know exactly what to expect. :) ***

“John?” called the deep, familiar voice, and John quickly pocketed the visiting card.

“Coming!” he called back, quickly shutting the drawer and leaving the office. He found his friend waiting in the corridor for him.

“You told my brother you’d stay with me,” Sherlock said, almost accusatorily, and John couldn’t help but find it endearing.

“Yeah,” he said with a faint smile. “Sorry. Shoelaces.”

Sherlock didn’t look convinced at all. He looked the lawyer up and down for a moment, then hummed vaguely and began to walk in the direction John assumed Sebastian had gone. He felt triumphant in the knowledge that Sherlock hadn’t just wandered away behind that bastard. Seemed like the amateur detective had a sense of self-preservation after all! Another tiny part of himself rejoiced in the fact that Sherlock had come to expect John’s company when- and the git would never accept it, but- he needed emotional support.

The room they entered had rows of cubicles where people in suits and expensive shoes tapped away at their keyboards. No one acknowledged their arrival. Sebastian was talking to a pretty woman who was probably in her early thirties, judging by the lines starting to form on her skin and the way her hair was in a perfect bun, as if she’d been wearing it that way for years. They were both smiling- him smugly, her abashedly.

Sherlock walked up to him and cleared his throat. John though, for a second, that he saw a tendril of hurt in those ever-changing eyes, but it was gone and replaced by a cool, emotionless stare before he could so much as blink.

“Ah yes,” said Sebastian, still grinning like a moron, then gesturing at a painting on the wall opposite them.  It was a portrait of the bank’s chairman, overlaid with a thick band of yellow spray paint across the eyes. There was another symbol on an adjacent painting. This one had a similar line, but below it was a shape similar to an ‘r’.

Sherlock stepped close to the paintings, taking pictures on his mobile phone, then leaning forwards to have a closer look. John just stood back, albeit closer to Sherlock than Sebastian was, and watched the magic happen. As he looked, Sherlock shuffled between the two paintings, moving backwards to see them from a distance- almost as if he were looking for a point with the best view of both the symbols. The younger man then walked to the large French window, opening it to peer down the side of the building. For a fraction of a second, John’s instinct was to pull him back, so as not to let him fall off the edge, but Sherlock quickly walked back in, now pacing to opposite ends of the room, then sliding his body in towards the paintings. Needless to say, many people now acknowledged their presence.

“So,” Wilkes said, sidling up to John. The lawyer felt over-powered by the abnormally strong scent of his cologne. “How did the two of you meet?”

John turned his head to level a cold stare at him and said, “None of your business.”

“Actually, as boyfriend, it is my business.” The banker had a malicious grin plastered all over his face, and all John wanted to do was execute his earlier desire to punch at that face until the man couldn’t move it anymore.

“ _Ex_ \- boyfriend,” John corrected, looking back at Sherlock. “We all make our mistakes.”

The banker huffed at that, shaking his head. “He’s obviously in love with me.”

“Oh?” John asked, feigning innocence, when all he could think was _killkillkill_.

“Why else would he be here right now, bending over to display that perfect arse-”

“Shut the _fuck_ up!” John spat, garnering a few stares. He ignored them all. “You have no right to talk about him like that. Not anymore.”

“Oh, and you do?” the limey sod countered, rounding up on him, and John felt his face flush up- whether from anger or embarrassment, he wasn’t sure.

“John!” Sherlock called just then, from inside a cabin with translucent screens for walls. John fixed Sebastian with a final glare, then walked in the direction of his friend’s voice.

The name-plate on the door read ‘Eddie Van-Coon’.

“Pillars and screens,” Sherlock said from the chair behind the desk, focusing his gaze on to the lawyer expectantly. John merely raised an eyebrow, causing the younger man to huff impatiently. “The graffiti was a message, John. It was intended to be seen by a worker at their desk. I’m positive this is the only place you can see both the paintings from, without having to lean or move.”

John moved towards him, bending down to lean over his shoulder so he could see. He didn’t fail to notice the close proximity to that long, pale neck, and was acutely aware of the tiniest hitch in the other man’s breathing. John certainly took him by surprise this time.

“Mmm,” he purred into Sherlock’s ear. “Yeah. This has to be it.”

He straightened up, waiting for the dark-haired man, who simply stared at him for a moment or two, then visibly shook himself and got up from the chair, clearing his throat. He then went to the door, pulling out the piece of paper from the name-plate, and walked out without a word. John took that as his cue to follow, and so he did.

They walked straight out of the cubicle area, out through the passage and were nearly at the reception when Sebastian shouted a short, out of breath “Hey!”

Sherlock turned around, looking bored, as if he already knew how this conversation would go. John reckoned he probably did.

“You snoop around my office, then leave without a word?” Wilkes sounded extremely annoyed.

“Problem?” Sherlock asked, a fake smile on his face. John wanted to laugh.

“Well..” Sebastian seemed at a loss. “Did you find anything?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said curtly, then turned to walk again, but was stopped by Sebastian tugging at his arm sharply. John took a step closer, snarling a little.

“Let go of him,” John said through clenched teeth, his eyes boring holes into Sebastian’s.

The banker took his hand back, taking a step away, then said, “Tell me what you found.”

“Why?” asked Sherlock. “I’m under no obligation to.”

“Yes, you are,” Wilkes demanded, trying to pull himself to his full height, as if to appear intimidating.

“No, I’m not,” Sherlock repeated, stressing on each word. “You’re not paying me. I have no obligation towards you.”

“Wait,” John interrupted, now openly wedging himself between the two taller men. “You’re not getting paid?”

Sherlock levelled a look at him that would cut anyone down to size. John, however, was not affected in the slightest. He quietly grabbed Sherlock’s arm, tugging him along and walking straight to the escalators. Sherlock, thoroughly stunned, did not even protest, merely allowed himself to be dragged across the lobby, out through the glass doors and straight into a cab. It was only once they were on their way to Baker Street that John let go of his arm, intertwining his own fingers in his lap.

“Tell me,” he said, voice shaking under the strain to keep from shouting. “Tell me we didn’t just try to help that dick out of the kindness of your heart.”

“Really, John,” Sherlock replied, trying to keep his own voice calm and unaffected. “You know me. You know just how kind I am.”

“Why, then?” John asked, hands clenching in anticipation of the reply.

“I told you,” Sherlock insisted. “The case-”

“ _Stop lying to me!_ ” John yelled, scaring the cabbie and causing the cab to swerve a little. “Sorry,” he called to the driver.

Sherlock’s eyes were large and round, mouth slightly agape. He then seemed to realise himself, straightening up again. “John, I-”

“Do you still love him?” John asked abruptly, then shut his mouth, looking into his lap. He almost began to apologize, but then decided he didn’t want to.

“What?” Sherlock asked, a little thrown. “I never _loved_ him, John, I’ve never loved anyone. I’m a sociopath. We’re incapable of love.”

“That’s not true,” John said quickly. “About you, I mean. You’re not… you’re not a sociopath.”

“I am, actually,” Sherlock said doggedly. “Several psychiatrists have come to the same conclusion.”

“Only because you’ve led them to believe that,” John challenged with a smirk, a knowing look in his eyes.

Sherlock seemed taken aback by this deduction, simply widening his own eyes and asking, “How did you know?”

“I didn’t know, I saw,” John smarted, earning himself a huff of annoyance. “You argue with Mrs. Hudson over inconsequential things like tea and biscuits. You say you hate your brother, but do as he asks anyway-”

“I do _not_ -”

“You do,” John insisted. “Don’t even try denying it. You allowed Wilkes into your flat because you thought you could talk it out, and you still won’t tell me anything about that woman who was with him, because you know I’d go after her. Unwarranted chivalry, I’m sure.”

Sherlock grunted at that. “None of that denies the conclusion,” he said, not convincing anyone.

“Why do you text me when you’re in lecture halls, Sherlock?” John asked softly, turning to look at his friend. “You don’t have to. They’re not important deductions. Hell, sometimes I’m convinced you make things up just to make me laugh.”

“I don’t make things up,” Sherlock mumbled, but John saw the beginnings of a smile on his face.

“You’re not a sociopath,” John said firmly, voice still tender, then took Sherlock’s right hand in his left one. If that crossed several lines, nobody said anything. For a few moments, the only sounds were those from outside the cab. John took a deep breath, then looked up at Sherlock’s face, expecting disgust, or terror, or even confusion- anything but the faint blush on his cheeks and the slight parting of those petal pink lips.

“Why do you love her, John?” Sherlock whispered, as if afraid that the slightest of sounds might disturb the moment.

John’s gaze darted between those pale grey eyes, now clouded with a strange sadness, and immediately found himself whispering back, “I don’t.”

The confession seemed to surprise him, although that was mostly because only now did he realise he had never been in love with Mary. Not really. She was nice, yes, funny, smart, even attractive. John saw himself kissing her, making her dinner, taking a bath with her, sure.

He didn’t see himself dying for her.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 10, and with it comes a painful revelation. What happens next is anyone's guess.

A week went by with John and Sherlock wrapped up in the Sanderson break-in case, though Sherlock was mostly running behind leads, whereas John was stuck doing paperwork for any new evidence they encountered. As it turned out, the graffiti was a death threat for Eddie Van Coon, whose corpse was found two days later with a GSW to his right temple. Van Coon was left-handed, and Sherlock was brilliant.

Apparently the break-in was carried out through a very easily opened window, thereby tripping no alarms. Sebastian had scoffed when Sherlock mentioned to him that the killer may have scaled the outside of the building, but then he didn’t look quite so smug when the arrests were made after a long chase through back alleys and tramways. John didn’t notice that the pain in his leg was gone for the night. He didn’t even notice it when he woke up sore the following day- after sleeping in, since it was a Saturday- and there was no blinding ache in his right thigh like he’d expect there to be if he was at all aware.

Instead, John couldn’t shake off that look that was on Sherlock’s face when they were catching their breath after Zhi Zhou had been caught. There was this gleam in his eye that made him look like a child who had just discovered the joys of Play-Doh. John wanted to kiss his gleeful smile right there in the middle of the deserted circus, with all of Scotland Yard as witnesses. It was with some difficulty that he had reined his more explicit thoughts in, concentrating instead on trying to get his lungs back up to working capacity. That night he made love to Mary while unabashedly thinking of Sherlock all through it. If he was going to Hell, he was bloody well going to enjoy the ride.

John brushed his teeth quickly, grabbing a quick plate of pancakes Mary had made on her way to work. Last week, he would have complained and moaned for her to stay home. Today, however, he just let her go. Truth be told, John was tired of being the one to stay up late waiting, or the one to make amends after a fight. He was tired of being the only one who tried.

Instead, he set his plate on the coffee table alongside a glass of milk, then fetched his wallet and found the little black card. He had some work to do today. He dialled the number quickly, taking a deep breath for whatever was about to greet him.

“Irene Adler’s phone,” came a female voice, though it sounded rather professional. “How may I help you?”

“Hello, yes, I’m looking for an appointment with Miss Adler,” John said, proud of how steady he sounded.

“Miss Adler’s booked until next January, but I can redirect you to one of her protégées, if you like,” the woman on the line replied, throwing John off completely.

“Wha..” he began. “Oh. _Oh_! Oh no! No, no, I’m not looking for- no. I only want to talk.”

“Well then,” said (John presumed) the receptionist. “I think you’re looking for a psychiatrist…”

“I do _not_ need a shrink!” John said sharply, then realised that wasn’t what she meant. There was silence on the other end. “Sorry,” he muttered, clearing his throat. “Sore spot.”

“Right…” She didn’t sound amused in the slightest.

“Look,” said the lawyer, trying to sound authoritative. “I believe Miss Adler provided…services…for a friend of mine against his wishes, and he may sue her in the near future, so I’d suggest you pencil in a meeting with John Watson for the earliest you can manage.”

“Uh…” the receptionist spluttered a little, clearly taken aback. John assumed she didn’t know much about Adler’s clients and what happened behind closed doors. “Miss Adler has no commitments between four and five p.m. this evening.”

“She does now,” John said smoothly, before hitting the End Call button.

***

 

“Hello, Mister Watson,” purred a silken voice, causing John to turn around in the abandoned motor room. Across the narrow passage, he saw a beautiful woman dressed all in black, right from her jaw down to her toes. Her dark hair was pulled away from her pale face, red lips sharp and glistening, even in the dull light.

“Miss Adler,” said John, stunned at her beauty, but not in the I-Want-Her-Under-Me way. There was something in her stance that demanded respect- something in her piercing gaze that brooked no arguments. “My friend-”

“Sherlock,” said the woman. “I do remember those cheekbones- could cut myself slapping that face. Would have, too, if he’d stayed.”

“He was coerced,” John said sharply, searching her quickly widening eyes.

“He was-” Irene seemed at a loss for words. “But they told us it was all consensual!”

“Us?” John inquired, now curious.

“I even asked,” the dominatrix insisted, the skin between her perfectly tweezed eyebrows now pinching up. “He said he wanted in.”

“Wilkes threatened to drug him if he didn’t,” John allowed, not wanting to give away any more than he had to. “Sherlock had just recovered from rehab.”

“I know,” Irene said. “About the rehab, I mean. I saw the needle scars, but he wasn’t high.”

“You’re a clever woman,” the lawyer conceded. “So how come you didn’t realise it wasn’t entirely consensual? Unless, of course, you knew…”

“No!” the woman interrupted loudly. “I’ve been doing this for years, all around the world. I have a reputation. I take consent very, _very_ seriously. Besides, I was mostly caught up with his boyfriend.”

John bristled at the use of that term. A boyfriend would be kind towards their partner. Sensitive and caring, even. Wilkes was none of those things, and yet Sherlock didn’t seem like he expected much. ‘Business transaction,’ he’d called it. John sighed, shaking his head, then a thought occurred to him. “Who was attending to Sherlock?” he asked. That gave Irene pause, eyes flitting over nothing as if she were trying to compose a reply before saying it out loud.

“I’m not free to say,” she answered after a moment. “All our employees sign an agreement which states that I take full responsibility for all their actions. So if you must sue anyone, it’ll have to be me.”

“No,” John countered. “That’s not why you won’t tell me. There’s something else, isn’t there?”

Irene looked taken aback. “You’ve been learning,” she said with a surprised smile, her voice laced with something akin to pride. “He’s been teaching you to read people, hasn’t he?”

“Nope,” John said smugly. “Just that the two of you are more alike than you appear at the surface.”

“Is that so?” she asked, words purred seductively.

“You both have an equal regard for law and binding agreements. In that you have none.” John looked at the ground, a fond smile gracing his features for a moment, before he looked back up with a cold stare. “So tell me. Why are you protecting her?”

“She’s the best I have,” Irene tried, but John saw right through it and laughed dryly. “Alright,” she conceded, “It _is_ true, though-”

“Miss Adler,” John interrupted, his tone firm. “You are not my only lead. It’s just that you were the easiest to contact.” John was bluffing, but there was a reason half his wealth came from winning several hands of poker.

“Well I guess I better up my security then,” the woman joked, an enticing glint in her pale blue eyes. It didn’t work on John.

“Look,” he said, walking menacingly towards her with his shoulders squared. “I _will_ find out who the last piece of this puzzle is, and I _will_ do it with or without your help. I care about Sherlock-”

“So do I,” Irene interrupted, a frown forming on her face.

“Not as much as I do,” John retorted, a sneer contorting his mouth in a threatening way. “Now either you give me a name, or I put this whole thing on you, and added to the rape and assault you’re already being charged for, this _will_ crumble your hard earned reputation.”

“Wait,” said the dominatrix, perplexed. “What rape and assault?”

“Clueless Clouseau?” John asked wryly, “Is that really how you want to play it?”

“What are you on about?”

“I know you were there that night,” the lawyer said, now standing at his full height, mere inches from her, his azure eyes glinting with anger and protectiveness.

“What night?” Irene asked, genuinely confounded now. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“Really?” John countered, his voice now louder. “So how come I walked into Baker Street four weeks ago to find Sherlock high and battered? He told me Sebastian was there, and he also told me that bastard wasn’t alone. He called her ‘The Woman’. Does that title ring a bell?”

“It wasn’t me,” Irene insisted, shaking her head. “It can’t have been. I wasn’t even here three weeks ago! I would never-”

“I know,” the lawyer conceded. “So tell me, Miss Adler, which other woman would Sherlock know, who could be there that night, who would beat him and scar him in a very skilled way, and whom he would associate with you in a drug addled state?”

“Oh no,” the woman breathed, taking a step back disbelievingly. She looked pale, as if she might collapse right there. John wished she wouldn’t, at least not until she’d told him who it was.

“Give me a name, Irene,” he demanded softly.

Her eyes were large and terrified, beginning to well up with unshed tears. “I can’t,” she whispered.

“A name,” John reiterated, tilting his head slightly, so as to appear less threatening. People tell you things if they subconsciously think they can trust you. Sherlock had taught him that.

“Not to you, John,” Irene whispered. “It’ll ruin-”

“Please,” he said, putting all his desperation and lov- _protectiveness_ towards Sherlock into his voice.

Irene looked at him, saw the depth of emotion in his eyes, and found herself answering without conscious thought.

“Mary Morstan.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dealing with the aftermath of Irene's revelation may not be the easiest task ever assigned to John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also another quickie reminder that I'm taking drabble requests on my Tumblr ohimadeitallup.tumblr.com so head on over there and pop me a prompt! :D

John’s mind was reeling on the way home. Why the _fuck_ did the cab have to swerve so much? He could barely contain the nausea roiling in his gut and his right thigh made itself known very suddenly- and _very_ painfully. He swore out loud when the traffic came to a halt, all the cars around him dragging forwards sluggishly.

On one hand, he wanted nothing more than to go far, far away from this mess that had become his life in the blink of an eye. On the other hand, he wanted to confront Mary and ask her if what Irene said was true, and if it was, then just why she would do such a thing. Truth be told, he was exhausted. This wasn’t even his drama, and yet he felt caught in the eye of the storm. If it came to it, though, he knew exactly which side he’d take, and that thought gave him some semblance of comfort.

After what seemed like eons, the taxi turned into his street and John quickly shoved some money at the driver, not even waiting to collect the change. He used his keys to open the door, fumbling a little since dusk had settled in, making it hard to see without the street lamps on yet; his hands were steady as ever. He stormed into the apartment, simultaneously relieved and agitated that Mary was home already. He’d have liked some time to decide on what he wanted to say to her, but then waiting for her to come home might actually have killed him.

“Oh!” she exclaimed when she heard him approach, turning to face away from the island counter where she was chopping up tomatoes. “Hello you,” she said with a smile, walking towards John to give him a quick peck on the mouth, then going back to chopping, not noticing that he didn’t kiss her back. “Book club was cancelled today,” she rambled absently, probably assuming that John was puttering about, getting comfortable. “Andrea said she wasn’t feeling up to it today…”

“Angela,” John corrected flatly, levelling an emotionless gaze at the back of her head.

Mary froze in place, eyes darting from side to side, desperately looking for a way to cover up her faux-pas. Before she could, however, John simply asked, “Was it you?”

She turned slowly, feigning ignorance, but John could see right through it. “Was it me what?” she asked, her eyebrows furrowing close together. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You know _exactly_ what I’m talking about!” John yelled.

Mary put the knife that was in her hand down on the counter, saying, “John, calm down.” She took a step towards him, but he cut her off with a palm in the air and a growled, “Don’t.” The last thing he needed was her touching him with those hands that had- he shook his head to get rid of the thought. It would do nothing to thwart the boiling rage he felt. Mary stood where she was, eyes widened, but not afraid. Her chin jutted out- defiant.

“Let me explain,” she urged, not sounding apologetic in the least.

“Just-”John took a deep breath to keep his voice from shaking. “Why?” He sounded hurt and broken, but more importantly, he just sounded defeated.

Mary stared at him blankly, took a deep breath herself, then said nothing.

“Right,” John muttered, turning to walk to their bedroom. He rooted through the wardrobe till he found a duffel bag, throwing a bunch of clothes into it randomly. He then went to the bathroom, grabbing his toothbrush and razor, putting them in and tying the drawstrings tight. He didn’t spare a glance towards Mary as he walked back into the living room.

“Where are you going?” she enquired, her voice suspicious and shaky at the same time. When John didn’t answer, she grabbed his arm, stopping him on his way to the door. “I asked you something.”

“I have no obligation towards you,” he stated coldly, quoting his friend. His friend who is brilliant and broken, partly due to the woman he had intended to spend his life with.

“Yes you do!” she screamed, the line of her spine taut, the hand on John’s bicep clenching painfully. “I’m your girlfriend!”

“Not anymore,” John replied, turning to look at her, daring her to object.

Instead, Mary only laughed, stepping back and crossing her arms. “You’re going to _him_ , aren’t you?” She shook her head, a sneer contorting her painted pink lips. “You think he’s going to let you fix him.” It wasn’t a question. “You think that if you offer your sympathies, a shoulder to cry on, that he will give you food and shelter.” Her pale eyes now held a mocking glint. “You think he’ll even let you shag him like the little _whore_ he is,” she leered.

“ _Shut up!_ ” John roared, clenching his own fists. He may be many things, but physically abusive wasn’t one of them. “ _Never_ talk about him like that again.” He secured the bag on to his shoulder and turned to the door. “Never talk to me again.”

He grabbed his keys and left.

***

It was only after he was knocking on the black wooden door that John realised where he’d subconsciously driven to. A sudden wave of guilt hit him, clawing at his insides. What was he doing? How dare he expect support from the one person who should be running away from him? John was basically living with Sherlock’s assailant. Why would the man trust him?

Mrs. Hudson opened the door, wordlessly ushering him upstairs, where Sherlock was sitting at his own kitchen counter, bent over a microscope, engrossed in one of his usual experiments. He didn’t say a thing when John walked in and sat in his usual chair, pillow at his back and duffel at his feet.

John noticed a pile of bedding on the sofa, and turned his head around to look at the younger man. “Why is this stuff here, Sherlock?” was the first thing John said to him, and Sherlock seemed to uncoil a little.

The detective-to-be ran his gaze over John, taking in tired eyes, down-turned lips and a defeated posture. “I had Mrs. Hudson clear out the upstairs bedroom,” he said softly, meeting blue eyes with an uncertain gaze.

“How did you-” John began, then shook his head. “Never mind. I’m not sure I want to know.”

“I had my doubts when you stole that card from Seb’s office. Of course you would try to arrange a meeting with-”

John, sensing an impending lecture, cut him off with a sharp, “Not now.”

Sherlock stopped at once, looking at the ground with a mumbled, “Sorry.” That took John by surprise. His friend _never_ apologised to anyone for _anything_.

“What?” the lawyer asked dumbly.

Sherlock looked back up, confused. He then seemed to realise that he had actually said he was sorry, and looked taken aback himself. Pursing his lips, he got up and walked towards John, kneeling in front of him and peering into his face like John had done for him all those nights ago. “Are you alright?” he ventured, both palms coming up to rest on John’s knees.

The lawyer’s gaze flitted between the younger man’s eyes, almost shining silver in the dim light, and he couldn’t say anything apart from, “I’m sorry.”

Sherlock tilted his head a little, curls falling over his right eyebrow. “What for?”

“For what she did,” he rasped, unable to meet Sherlock’s gaze. He fiddled with the little thread sticking out of the seam in the arm of his chair. “I didn’t know. I _should have known_!” He banged his fist once on to the arm of the chair, and Sherlock covered it with his own palm, rubbing his thumb over pale knuckles. It broke John’s heart to see the younger man trying to comfort him. It was supposed to be the other way around.

“You weren’t to know.” The deep baritone was now a rumble, the words meant to be private. Only for John. He was still looking at John’s face, his own calm and placid, not a hint of fear or anger to be seen.

“I should have known,” John insisted softly, a stinging sensation in the backs of his eyes surprising him. He wasn’t one to cry. He looked up, suddenly feeling as small and lost as he appeared to the world. “What she did-”

“You _weren’t_ to know!” the younger man persisted, other hand raising from his left knee to cup his jaw. “John,” he called, waiting till the lawyer met his eyes. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“But-”

“Shh,” Sherlock soothed, his right thumb coming to rest at John’s mouth, both their eyes following the movement uncertainly, then meeting again. “Don’t,” he instructed, getting up smoothly and holding his hand out for John to take. His palm was large and warm, as opposed to John’s smaller, colder one. His fingers were long and graceful, as opposed to John’s short and stubby ones.

Hands linked, Sherlock forwent the bedding on the sofa, leading them both to his own bedroom. John’s heart rate picked up at that, a million possible endings to this night racing through his mind. It was true that he wanted Sherlock. More than he’d ever wanted anyone, even. Not now, though. Not when things were so convoluted. His mind was a whirlwind, trapped in an abnormally calm body, and that combination made him feel like he was about to explode.

Sherlock simply led John to his bed, pushing him down and tucking him in, hands still joined.

“Sleep,” he said kindly. “I’ll be next door if you need me.”

John’s smile was fond, eyes shining in the dark. “Why would I need you?” he asked softly, giving Sherlock’s fingers a slow squeeze, then letting go.

“No reason at all.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has a visitor. John is not pleased.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longest chapter so far. Thank you so much for all the support! It makes me want to write more! <3

It hadn’t taken very long for John to fall asleep, the swirling mess in his mind exhausting him from head to toe. The second he’d heard Sherlock close the bedroom door, he’d pulled the comforter up over his head, inhaling deeply and immersing himself in the scent of his friend. There were hints of masculine cologne and sweat, and also something earthy and ozone-like, that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. It had relaxed him instantly, muscles going pliant and head sinking deeper into the pillow. Before he could exhale entirely, John was dead to the world.

When he came to, it wasn’t with a start, or all of a sudden like he usually woke. John felt his mind surfacing gradually, senses getting a little bit sharper with each passing second. He felt the fabric of Sherlock’s sheets on his arms and tingling at his feet, registered the filtered sunlight as a dull red in the backs of his eyelids, and finally heard voices outside. The words were muffled, but he made out a distinctly female voice. Probably Mrs. Hudson.

John went to the shower first, wincing at his reflection in the mirror above the wash basin. Dark circles and heavy bags underneath his eyes, hair sticking up at the most random angles, clothes sleep rumpled- he was every hangover cliché he’d ever read of, and he hadn’t even been drinking! Sighing, John quickly stripped, rinsing his mouth out with some of Sherlock’s mouthwash- he could brush properly after breakfast- and stepping into the shower. The hot water, as always, felt like heaven on his back as it gently pattered over the muscles there. He soaped up quickly, still sluggish from sleep, then washed the lather off and grabbed a fluffy towel off the towel rack. The softness of it surprised John. Sherlock didn’t seem like one to bother with good quality towels- he was all crisp sheets and well-fitting linen shirts. There must be some give to him after all, John thought fondly.

He walked back out to the bedroom with the towel wrapped around his waist, wondering if his duffel was still next to his chair. To his relief, he found it leaning against the foot of his bed- though he didn’t remember it being there before he went to the bathroom. Probably didn’t notice it before, he supposed.

Grateful for having had the presence of mind to pack plenty of boxer shorts even in his rage, John put on a casual white t-shirt and a pair of faded black jeans, padding out barefoot and sniffing the air for tea. If Sherlock was up, which he was, then someone must have made tea. He already knew Mrs. Hudson was more than their landlady. That thought gave him pause. _Their_ landlady. Well, John thought as he closed the bedroom door, it seemed like he was about to stay here for a bit anyway. He’d have to sort out the rent and all of that soon.

Turning around, John froze in place, seeing a familiar, black-clad figure sitting in his chair.

“Hello, Mister Watson,” Irene purred with a smile that always seemed seductive. Old habits, he guessed.

John nodded curtly, walking to the kitchen. There was no tea left in the kettle. Huffing, he washed it out quickly, filling it up again and keeping it to boil. He glanced back at Sherlock who was in his own chair, looking at John sheepishly, like he meant to leave some tea for him as well. A surprise visit, it would seem. No one said anything till the kettle had boiled, then John quickly made his tea, pointedly _not_ making a cup for either of the others, and assumed his seat on the sofa. The bedding was gone- probably upstairs.

 

“So,” he said after taking a sip of his blissfully British tea, “What are you doing here?”

“Ahh do tone down the niceties, will you?” Irene retorted, turning to look back at Sherlock, who hadn’t looked at either of them but was, instead, staring at a distant point just above the carpet. “I’m here to check on dear Sherlock.” She got up and walked to the younger man, kneeling and holding his chin in one manicured hand, turning it from side to side, as if inspecting his bruises. John barely held in the urge to growl at her, clutching at his cup and swallowing the rest of the tea in one gulp, then going back to the kitchen and washing it before putting it away. “Mmm,” he heard her say, “That one’s yellowing up nicely. She really did a number on you, huh?”

Sherlock was staring at her intently, as if trying to figure her out. Apparently he wasn’t having any luck, since that crinkle that John had so come to adore, had found its place above his nose. No one said anything for a few long seconds. Irene’s face was so close to Sherlock’s that John thought they were trying to mind-meld like the Vulcans. The dominatrix had her back to where John was standing, but he could make an educated guess that her eyes were currently holding a very suggestive glint, and that thought made an ugly streak of jealousy spike its way through his limbs.

“Hamish,” he interrupted loudly, both the others turning to look at him, pale faces holding identical expressions of confusion. “John Hamish Watson,” he continued, stomping towards the coat hanger and putting on his jacket. “In case you were looking for baby names.”

John left the flat in a huff, slamming the front door behind him. Out. He needed to be out right now. He knew exactly what he was feeling- it was that same anger he felt when Harry had made out with his first girlfriend on the night of their prom. He had wanted to snap her neck right then for stealing what belonged to him, and he wanted to do the same to Irene. It scared him sometimes, the depth of emotions he could feel; which was why he needed to be out.

Quickly getting on to his bike, John rode for about an hour, finding himself outside a lush green field somewhere in Surrey. He parked next to a fence, leaning against the black leather seat and breathing in the cool morning air. He thought about Mary, about her abject betrayal- not just the fact that she cheated on him, which he might have forgiven; he wasn’t what people would call tall, dark or handsome. Sherlock took all three of those titles. The abuse, though- the fact that she used violence for no reason other than to threaten Sherlock not to sue- that was where he drew the line. It didn’t matter if she was his girlfriend at the time. It didn’t even matter that Sherlock was his best friend. It was a simple issue of morality.

John got back on to his bike, constantly slowing down to ask the locals where he could find an internet café. Once there, he fired off a quick e-mail to say he was taking a week off work. He made up a story about medical issues and referred them to his physician, but the truth was that he needed time to build a proper case. He began to look up online archives and other resources his firm often used, saving important pages on to his virtual drive. He’d take prints of them later, make a proper folder and show it to Sherlock- see if it needed any additions. And then maybe he’d take it to the Senior Partners of his firm and ask if they could represent Sherlock. That is, if Mycroft let them.

It was getting dark by the time John reached 221B, subconsciously reaching into his pocket for keys. To his surprise, there was actually an extra bunch of keys in his pocket that he hadn’t noticed before. Sherlock must have anticipated his tantrum and known that John would storm off without bothering to ask for his own set of them. Smiling, he turned the key, thrilled at how the door opened so easily. This was home now.

Running upstairs, he found the door closed- which was odd, since Sherlock perpetually left the door open. It annoyed him when people knocked, and he always had Mrs. Hudson answer the doorbell. John opened the door to the flat, finding it in the dark, no sign of Sherlock. He took out his phone to call him, but found a text he hadn’t heard coming in.

**_Out with the Woman. Might be late. Don’t wait up. –SH_ **

John had nearly gotten over the morning’s incident, and then Sherlock had to go ahead and go out with her. Clenching his teeth, he slammed the door shut for the second time today and forwent his bike for a cab. He needed to get plastered tonight; it was that, or jump Sherlock and suck bruises into his skin so everyone knew whom he belonged to. That was an absurd and highly disturbing thought. They weren’t even dating. John knew there was something in those lingering stares, but he also knew it could never be. Sherlock was nineteen, whereas John was hitting twenty-six. He’d labelled Wilkes a pervert, and he was pretty sure he was older than the banker. And yet here he was, perving on a boy seven years his junior. It wasn’t a sexuality crisis- he’d always known he swung both ways. It was the fact that he felt like a dirty old man.

Once at the bar, he ordered several rounds of whiskey straight, then switched to vodka when he began to feel enough of a buzz that the bitterness of the latter would be dulled. It was how he did it back in Uni when he needed to get very drunk very fast. Somewhere around his twelfth drink, John found himself staring at the handsome bartender, wondering if he could get a quick shag out of it. Then his brain decided to supply images of Sherlock and Irene tumbling around in sheets, and the alcohol began to push up against his throat. He paid his tab quickly, staggering out and getting into one of several cabs that lined up outside the bar to carry drunk passengers home.

“221B Baker Street,” he slurred, then promptly passed out, waking up when the driver shook him once they were there.

Hazily, John plucked some notes out of his wallet, not checking to see their denomination, and handed it over to the driver. It took him eight tries to put the key into the keyhole, his hands were shaking so badly, and he tripped over at least four stairs, managing not to fall due to the death grip he had on the wooden railing. When he got to the flat, the dim lamp was on in the living room and Sherlock was standing facing the window, bow poised above the violin strings near his jaw. He seemed to tilt to the right, but then that was probably John’s head swimming.

“You’re drunk,” Sherlock said quietly, a note of disapproval in his voice.

“You’re back,” John slurred, which was probably not the most intelligent sentence he’d ever constructed. Without conscious thought, he found himself walking up behind Sherlock, leaning heavily against his back and inhaling deeply. It was the same scent as his sheets, and John found himself relaxing helplessly. “How was she?” he asked, the pout in his voice very audible.

Sherlock took the violin off his collarbone, turning around quickly so as to catch John on his chest before he keeled over. “What do you mean?” he rumbled, putting the violin and the bow on the nearby table, then placing both hands on John’s biceps to hold him steady.

“You fucked her, didn’t you?” John’s eyes were constantly flitting over Sherlock’s face, as if expecting to find marks of red lipstick on the alabaster skin. He then looked down at Sherlock’s chest, mumbling “Know you did. Smell her all over you.”

Sherlock frowned, confused, and John finally gave in to the impulse and ran a finger over that nose-crinkle, sighing when he felt the texture of the folds. He hoped he’d remember that feeling forever.

“John,” Sherlock began, causing the shorter man to look back into his eyes, hand leaving his face. “I didn’t have sex with her,” he said definitively.

“Why not?” John asked, then rolled his eyes at himself. Sherlock was gay, obviously. He then slumped forward again, losing himself in the feel of silky linen as strong arms enveloped him, so as to keep them both from falling.

Before he passed out for a second time, however, he thought he heard Sherlock say something in a voice almost a whisper.

Something that sounded vaguely like, “I don’t want her.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock dives into his past, and John goes along for the ride.
> 
> ***WARNING FOR MENTIONS OF NON-CONSENSUAL CUTTING AND RECREATIONAL DRUG ABUSE.***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry about the delay in updating this. My internet connection has been acting up of late. But thank you so much for your patience! <3

John woke up with a massive hangover. Actually, that was a gross understatement. His skull was almost certainly splitting at the sutures, and before he was entirely awake, he had thrown himself out of Sherlock’s bed and into the bathroom, bent over the toilet bowl, the contents of his empty stomach making an appearance.

The retching might have been extremely loud, because within minutes there was a palm stroking his back, another pushing his hair away from his sweaty forehead, and a warm body at his side, taking his whole weight when he couldn’t hold himself up anymore. Sherlock put down the lid and flushed the toilet, rubbing his palms up and down John’s arm and letting the older man lean into him for as long as he chose.

When he felt confident about his strength again, John took a deep breath, righting himself and standing up. The bright white light seemed especially harsh, and John winced, closing his eyes again. Sherlock ran to switch it off, reappearing at John’s side and guiding him to the wash basin. He stood with one palm at John’s back, waiting for him to finish brushing his teeth, then stepped out to let him use the loo.

John walked out of the bathroom to find Sherlock’s bedroom in complete darkness- the blinds had been drawn so that very thin rays of light filtered through the windows. It was bright enough that he wouldn’t walk into furniture, but not so bright as to worsen the pounding headache. Gingerly, he sat down on Sherlock’s bed, wondering why he was in the man’s room in the first place. He had no recollection of what happened after he came back home, just that he smelled of Sherlock now, so it was all good. He certainly hoped he hadn’t gone cuddling up to the guy- that might not have been appreciated…

When Sherlock returned, it was with a glass of water and two Ibuprofen pills, all of which John swallowed gratefully. He refused any offer for the lavish breakfast Mrs. Hudson had prepared, unable to even think of a full English without wanting to vomit again.

“I’ve called your office,” Sherlock informed, voice deliberately low, so as not to hammer at John’s senses. John felt like he could live off that delicious rumble for the rest of his life. “I told them you won’t make it in today. Migraine.”

“Shouldn’t have bothered,” John rasped, wincing as his throat hurt. “I emailed them yesterday. Taking the week off.” He adjusted two pillows and sat back against the headboard. “Thought I’d take some time to settle in and such.”

Sherlock’s face brightened immeasurably at that, though he tamped it down quickly, clearing his throat. “That’s…probably a good call, yes,” he said, still softly, then, “You should stay in and rest today.”

“So should you,” John replied, hoping the man would take the hint. He didn’t.

Sherlock looked confused, head tilting slightly, looking for all the world like a lost puppy. Or maybe John was just reading too much into everything. “Why would I need to rest?”

“Sherlock,” John said began, “Why did you put me in your bed last night?”

The taller man looked slightly taken aback, then shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “You needed to sleep it off, and I wasn’t about to carry you up a flight of stairs.”

“You could have put me on the sofa,” John challenged, a smirk playing on his lips.

The detective was at a loss for words, almost as if he didn’t know why he did it himself. John took pity on him, smiling warmly and patting the empty side of the bed next to him. Sherlock took off his dressing gown, climbing onto the bed in only his pyjama bottoms and faded t-shirt. He leaned against the headboard too, and looked down at John.

“I knew you’d be sick,” he tried, but John huffed a laugh.

“That’s not it,” he said.

“My room’s warmer,” Sherlock attempted again, but there was a smile growing on his face this time. It made John’s stomach do funny things, and he really didn’t want a repeat performance of twenty minutes ago.

“By a degree or two, Sherlock,” John retorted.

“Well, a degree or two could make all the difference, _John_.” He was full blown smiling now, doggedly trying to make his point while his eyes positively glowed with a challenge. John thought he could see a glimpse of a much younger child, so full of glee and wonder for the world, and his heart soared.

“Oh yeah?” he asked, hoping Sherlock would keep talking.

The man didn’t disappoint. He launched into a lengthy explanation of how it could mean the difference between boiling water and steam, or that between normal body temperature and a fever. He then went on to regale a few specimens he saw at his biology classes, some of which he snuck into. John asked why he’d want to sneak into more boring lectures, and Sherlock merely shrugged, saying something about how you never know when knowledge might come in handy. Through it all Sherlock’s eyes held that glow, and John wondered if he always looked like this when talking of all the things he was passionate about. He even giggled when narrating Mycroft’s love of cake, and John found himself putting an arm around the boy’s wiry frame, pulling him in to lean against him.

The giggling subsided eventually, and Sherlock traced mindless circles on John’s chest, still smiling dazedly.

“Tell me about your childhood,” John prompted, already feeling a whole lot better just by having his friend close.

Sherlock, however, stiffened at that, pulling away with a sad frown, and John panicked. Had he said the wrong thing? He was only just getting to know Sherlock- had he sounded too interfering?

“I’m sorry,” he blurted. “I didn’t mean to pry-”

“No,” Sherlock said, relaxing into John again, fingers of his right hand going back to tracing lazy patterns on John’s worn undershirt.

John waited silently, hoping the boy would elaborate.

“It was…unpleasant,” came the rumbling words, and John could feel them vibrate at his side. It sent a jolt of pleasure down his spine, but he suppressed it in favour of listening to his friend. “I was always ahead of my peers, but they wouldn’t promote me to a higher year because I was _too young_.” John felt him make a face against his shoulder and pressed a grin into a mop of dark curls. He had an arm around the younger man, palm stroking up and down his bicep as if to let him know that John was listening.  “Naturally, all of my classmates hated me. The regular bullying lost its allure by the sixth split lip, so it got more…violent.”

John’s grip around Sherlock tightened instinctually. “Violent how?”

Sherlock took in a deep breath and held it, as if weighing his options, then exhaled noisily, and pulled away from John. The lawyer was about to protest, but Sherlock simply sat with his back to John and took his t-shirt off.

“Sherlock, what are you-” John stopped mid-sentence when he saw the smattering of long scars all over the miles of pale skin in front of him. Most of them seemed old and faded, though there were a few more recent ones which were mostly concentrated on his lower back. They weren’t thick enough to be whiplash, and were too neat to be fingernail scratches.

John took in a harsh breath as realisation hit him.

Razor blades.

The once happy beat of John’s heart now turned ferocious- angry. “Who did this?” he asked through clenched teeth.

“I already told you…” Sherlock sounded puzzled. “Do you not remember-”

“ _Names_ ,” John said, voice strained with rage.

Sherlock turned his head to the side. “It doesn’t matter.”

“ _Of course it bloody matters!_ ” John yelled, hands clutching into fists by his side when Sherlock flinched. He forced his mind to calm down, taking in deep, noisy breaths; the last thing Sherlock needed was more brute force. Sighing, he said gently, “I’m sorry.” He extended both arms. “Come here,” and then, “Please?” when Sherlock looked unsure.

Within moments, there was a lean body slotted against his side again, and John’s arms tightened around it. It didn’t matter whether or not John was attracted to him. He didn’t even care if Sherlock thought of him the same way. It was all irrelevant. All John knew was that there was a reason he was in this man’s life, and if his role only consisted of playing bodyguard or confidante, he would take it and be glad.

John felt a ghost of warm breath on his chest as Sherlock began to talk again.

“It stopped hurting after a few months,” he said. “In fact, I quite began to enjoy it.” At John’s questioning hum, he explained, “Cutting releases dopamine, which relieves pain. In a way, it got me high. It’s why so many people turn to it as a form of release- it’s an addiction of sorts.”

“So did you…” John’s question trailed off.

“Did I begin to cut myself?” Sherlock finished for him. “No, I didn’t. Never felt the need to- they took care of it for me. And then I discovered cocaine, which was obviously a much better high.”

John tsk-ed at that, frowning in disapproval.

“Don’t worry,” Sherlock said. “I was always lucid enough to make sure I was safe.”

John raised a suspicious eyebrow.

“Relatively,” Sherlock muttered, then rested his head on John’s chest.

“What happened next?” John prompted softly, wanting to learn this man inside and out.

“Oh, I let them fuck me.”

The casual tone in Sherlock’s voice jarred John away, causing the younger man to scowl at him.

“You-”

“It was that or have them hurt me some more,” Sherlock said curtly. “With this at least they’d be too out of it to do any lasting damage.”

“Lasting dama- for _God’s sake_ , Sherlock! What about the emotional trauma you put yourself through?” John was beginning to hit a mental block just thinking of it.

“What emotional trauma?” Somehow, the look of genuine confusion in those ever-changing eyes hit John harder than all of what Sherlock had told him in the last hour. The man really didn’t realise just how messed up this entire situation was!

John said nothing more, instead pulling Sherlock back to him and holding him tightly again, squeezing his own eyes shut, as if that would reverse the years of indescribable pain his friend had been through. The younger man stiffened in surprise at first, then relaxed into it, and John couldn’t help but smile in amusement.

That little reaction was their entire relationship in a nutshell.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new case is on the horizon, and John is definitely not mourning.

After having cuddled for a while, Sherlock had left for a biology lecture amidst nagging from John about breakfast. The boy didn’t even bother to carry a pen, instead insisting that he’d remember every word the lecturer said- he even offered to repeat all of it, if John so wished. John had just laughed and slapped his backside lightly, shooing him out of the door.

Right. Monday morning, and he had work to do. Well, Monday noon, but lunch could wait. He wasn’t very sure how much his stomach could handle just then anyway. Stretching, John made his way to his duffle in Sherlock’s bedroom, picking it up and walking back out to settle himself into the chair that he was quite beginning to love, if he was being honest. He fired up his laptop, grabbing himself a mug of coffee while it finished with the millions of updates whose purpose he had no idea about.

Groaning as the warm liquid made its way down his throat, John opened a browser. First things first, he needed to run background checks on Sebastian, Irene and… _her_. John felt a sharp emotional pain every time he thought of her, which was strange because he’d assumed he never truly cared about her. Maybe it wasn’t black and white after all. Sighing, he typed ‘Sebastian Wilkes’ into the search bar, sipping at his coffee as the page loaded. Apparently the man had had several DUI charges, but that was as bad as it got. Irene, on the other hand, was pristine. No criminal records whatsoever. John had a strong feeling that was only because of her many…talents, but truth be told, he was a little glad there was no record in her name. For all her many activities, the woman knew consent when she saw it. John respected that immensely.

Just as he was about to type in Mary’s name, however, his mobile phone buzzed with an incoming text.

**_We’re going on holiday tomorrow. –SH_ **

John was befuddled. Then again, that was often his default setting around Sherlock. This, however, was entirely unexpected.

**Where? And why?!**

The reply was almost instantaneous.

**_Baskerville. Classmate saw footprints of a gigantic hound. Need to investigate. –SH_ **

**You want to investigate paw prints…**

**_Yes. We leave at 4. –SH_ **

**Right…**

John just went back to searching.

A couple of hours and two packets of biscuits later, he had an entire file worth of information- everything from the definition of rape and assault, to popular arguments about the appropriate punishment for sexual assault. If he had any control over it, John would make sure that both Wilkes and Mary never left prison all their lives. For now, though, he had to focus on getting them in there in the first place.

Stretching, John decided that a shower was a good idea. He grabbed a few clothes from his duffel and walked to the shower, quickly turning it on and stripping entirely. Stepping into the steady thrum of the water, he wondered when Sherlock would get home, and what he’d do first. He’d probably hang his coat up on the hook and go straight to the microscope on the kitchen table. He’d stay there for a while, then yell for Mrs. Hudson to get him tea. Maybe he’d yell for _John_ to get him tea, now that he was around.

And then he’d hear the shower running. And he’d come to investigate…

John’s hand veered automatically towards his cock, giving it a few quick strokes to get it raring to go.

Sherlock would push the door open and walk towards the shower curtain, footsteps soft, but sure.

His breathing got heavier, a slight flush turning his cheeks and chest a pale pink. John began to stroke a little harder, squeezing his palm on every upstroke.

The taller man would push the curtain aside, cloudy grey eyes widening when he’d see John there in all his naked glory. Would he like what he sees?

John leaned his other palm on the wall opposite him, unable to stand without that support.

Would Sherlock join him? Maybe take all those layers off- the boy dressed like a mid-thirties businessman! Would he allow John to unwrap him like a present? To pluck away those layers like the petals of a rose, and behold his beautiful form?

“Fuck,” John groaned, turning around to lean his back on the wall instead. His knees had given out just at the thought of Sherlock’s porcelain skin uninterrupted by fabric of any kind. Squeezing his eyes shut again, he let his imagination run wild, no holds barred.

Sherlock kissing him with that baby pink mouth. Sherlock looking at him like a particularly delicious puzzle. Sherlock trailing his hands down John’s body. Sherlock noticing John’s hard-earned muscles. Sherlock taking John’s cock into his own hand. Sherlock stroking him. Sherlock cupping his balls. Sherlock kissing at his neck. Sherlock kneeling. Sherlock sucking. Sherlock. Sherlock.

“Sherlock!” John moaned softly, the orgasm causing his abdominal muscles to ripple. He slumped against the wall, letting his legs fold and sitting in the bathtub. This was beginning to turn into an obsession- and not a very healthy one at that. John needed to find a way to get over his new flatmate, or things were going to get very ugly, _very_ fast.

Mind momentarily clear, John finished washing up, wrapping a towel around his waist- a towel which he most definitely did not sniff at- and stepped out of the tub. Looking into the bathroom mirror, he realised he needed a shave. John opened the door to step out and get his razor, but was interrupted by a collision into a very tall, very warm, very male body.

“Oof!” he groaned, stepping back from the impact.

“John,” Sherlock croaked, and John noticed that his face was flushed.

“Are you alright?” he asked immediately, one palm raising up to touch his forehead. “You look…”

“I’m fine,” the dark haired man replied irritably, pushing John’s hand away and stepping into the bathroom. The bathroom door was promptly slammed into John’s face. That was that, he supposed.

The first thing John noticed in Sherlock’s bedroom was an open suitcase on the bed. He peered in to see about three pairs of shirts, trousers and socks neatly stacked inside it.

John walked back to the bathroom door and knocked, yelling, “ _So you were serious about the holiday?_ ”

“ _Well of course I was serious! Have you not packed yet?_ ” was the annoyed response, and John rushed to grab a few of his clothes from the drawing room and stuff them into the suitcase as well. He really wasn’t in the mood for a Sherlock-brand-of-strop right now.

When the taller man came back out, it was with bottles and bottles of what seemed like aftershave, shaving foam, face wash, shower gel…was that styling mousse? He huffed loudly when he saw that John had dumped his stuff into the suitcase, thereby leaving less room for himself. He didn’t protest or yell, though, and was oddly serene as he took everything out and repacked all of it to suit his fancy. John just huffed in the background, going back into the bathroom to change into the day’s clothes.

***

The train ride to Devon was as entertaining as you’d expect a train ride to be. In that it wasn’t. About halfway there, John was getting antsy, his right knee bobbing incessantly. If he had it his way, John would just ride everywhere. Perhaps Sherlock would sit behind him? That thought lifted his mood a little, but the first taste of the sandwich he’d ordered managed to quash that as well.

“Tell me about her,” Sherlock said out of the blue, locking his phone screen and putting it into his jacket pocket.

“Hmm?” John asked, confused as to what his friend was talking about.

“Mary,” Sherlock explained concisely, and John felt the skin on the back of his neck prickle.

“What about her?” John asked- thought it didn’t sound much like a question- and looked away to gaze aimlessly out of the train window.

“Tell me about her,” Sherlock repeated softly, and John could feel his gaze at the back of his head.

“Not much to te-”

“John,” Sherlock interrupted, almost chastising.

“Why?” the lawyer asked, looking back at his friend and wishing he’d drop it.

“It’s an important step of grieving,” the younger man said simply.

John couldn’t even begin to comprehend the absurdity of that statement. “I am not _grieving_!”

“Yes, you are.” Sherlock’s voice was calm and steady, and it seemed to relax John against his very will.

“Sherlock, she-”

“You cared a great deal about her, John. We both know that. She was your end game…”

“The key word being ‘ _was’_ ,” John huffed. He raised a hand to rub at his face, then said, “She was…different. You know how you get all these women- _and men_ -” he looked pointedly at Sherlock, hoping he’d get the hint. Given the unimpressed raise of an eyebrow, apparently the git had already figured it out. “-who are just boring. They work towards nothing…crave nothing. All they want is stability and two kids and…Mary was just…not like that. She didn’t much care for whether or not we had a big June wedding, or whether or not I’d called back. She was…pleased within herself. Or so I thought, anyway.” He shook his head wryly, looking at the floor of the train between his feet.

“So what changed?” Sherlock nudged, voice still soft, and yet still assertive.

“I did.” John shrugged, looking back up at Sherlock. “Suddenly, I found myself craving stability and a good job that paid well and that urge to settle down. With her. Suddenly, I was just one of those people I despised.”

“The key word being ‘ _was’_?” Sherlock had a small smile on his face- a genuine, cheeky one. One John had missed all day.

He nodded. “And then one day I got kidnapped by a paunchy stranger and ordered to Baker Street…”

They were both laughing like maniacs before John could even finish his sentence.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock are on the case- well, they're trying. However, Sherlock's slightly off, and John can't quite figure out why. An eventual discovery could possibly drive them both down a very dangerous path.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh. My. Gosh. I feel so, so, so terrible for having ruthlessly abandoned this fic. It was all University's fault. I had barely any time, and didn't want this fic to be snapdash- I figured it deserved much better. But now, the year's done, and I can get back to writing again! I'm so very sorry, guys, please please forgive me for leaving you hanging like this! I shall try and finish this fic over the summer, so please be patient with me.
> 
> Again, if you've taken the time out thank you so much, and please feel free to leave comments and critique. I love hearing from you guys!
> 
> Thanks! xxxx

Chapter 15

“Sorry we couldn’t do a double room for you boys,” the manager-slash-bartender said, looking rather sheepish.

“That’s fine,” John rushed to say. “We’re not…” He just sighed and shook his head. Maybe he _was_ being quite obvious.

He tried to coax some information about Baskerville and Dewer’s Hollow out of the man, but absolutely had to leave when his assistant asked if Sherlock was a “snorer”.

Sherlock’s expectant gaze was met by meagre bits of knowledge John had actually managed to gather, but of course the git was never satisfied. However, John did notice that something was off about Sherlock. He seemed more on edge, lately, and the smallest of things could startle him. John wondered if this was because of the attack, although that was quite a while ago.

The rest of the day was spent scouting the area, looking for clues and talking to Henry, the kid who came to Sherlock with the case. Henry, as expected, was a painful mixture of distraught and terrified as he spoke of his father’s gruesome death and the wretched monster that he claimed inhabited Dewer’s Hollow. Sherlock, of course, snorted derisively and sniped at his every comment, labelling him dramatic and delusional. By the end of it, John was more than ready to just slide into bed and “snore” the night away. Say what you will about their motel, they provided the best heating John had come across while on holiday.

After making sure Sherlock was well fed, he left the gangly man in front of the restaurant’s fireplace with a stiff whisky and turned in for the night. He’d had plans to take a long, hot shower, but the chill seemed to have set in his bones and worn him out completely. He opted, instead, to undress and climb straight under the duvet. Sherlock would be proud that he decided to go for nudity, he thought absently. The naked body radiates heat which is immediately trapped by the duvet, thereby keeping you slightly warmer than if you sleep fully clothed. And speaking of Sherlock and naked bodies, John moved his hand down between his legs, checking if he could elicit a reaction to the notion. Before he could finish the thought, however, John was fast asleep.

It was in the middle of his third REM cycle that John jerked awake.

“Uncanny…”

John panicked and flailed till he found the switch, turning on the night lamp.

“Jesus, Sherlock!” he hissed. “What the fuck are you doing here?!”

Sherlock merely shrugged, sliding further down the armchair he was sitting in. “It’s quite fascinating, really, John.”

Much as he raged internally, John had to ask. “What is?”

“How tuned in you are to me,” came the reply. John noticed how the younger man had lowered his voice to a rumbling whisper so as not to hurt John’s hearing which was currently over-sensitive from sleep.

John sat up, then realised his current state of undress and quickly pulled the duvet up with him. Sherlock seemed to pause for a minute, looking slightly startled, then politely looked away. John sighed in gratitude, quickly leaning over to grab his boxers and struggling to put them on under the sheets. When he was done, he cleared his throat and Sherlock’s gaze returned to his face. “Tuned in?” he asked.

“When I first came in to your room- I can pick locks like a pro, John, do wipe that question out of your mind- yes, when I first walked in, you turned around and rolled over to the other side of the bed. When I sat down, you moved closer to the middle of it. And just now, when I shifted for the first time in about fifteen minutes, you woke up. It’s like your body is unconsciously- pardon the pun - reacting to my presence.” Sherlock seemed quite taken aback by his own conclusion, even as he narrated.

“I’m sure you were just disturbing my sleep,” John muttered, looking down at his lap. “What are you even doing here?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” was the curt reply, and that’s when John really noticed how his friend look. He was dressed in his pyjama bottoms and a raggedy old t-shirt, but no dressing gown. So he had been asleep, then.

“That’s not true,” John challenged. “You did sleep.”

That surprised Sherlock, but then he looked down at himself and seemed to figure out how John had deduced that. “Very well, I couldn’t sleep for long.” He seemed quite uncomfortable admitting to that, and John grew suspicious.

“Why not?” he implored.

“It’s not important,” Sherlock quickly shut him down. “What’s important is that I’m bored.”

‘Oh no…’ John thought, anguished. ‘Sherlock’s an absolute nightmare when he’s bored- oh….’ Looking his friend dead in the eye, John said, “Tell me about it.”

Sherlock almost began to feign innocence, but John just raised an eyebrow. He knew.

“It was about that night,” Sherlock conceded. “The night when they-“ He took a deep breath before starting again. “The night when they came to Baker Street and…”

“How long have you been having these nightmares?” John asked.

“Since I took the bank case.”

John got out from under the duvet and put the rest of his clothes on, purposefully not looking at Sherlock. “Come on,” he said. “We’re going to get some food.”

The restaurant downstairs had closed hours ago- disadvantages of being in the country- so the two men had to take a trip to the nearest 24/7 diner which was about a twenty-minute drive away. After placing their orders, Sherlock excused himself to go use the bathroom. John sat there fiddling with his phone, desperately looking for service. Their waitress, an attractive woman who seemed to be in her late twenties, came by with their plates of food, and seeing that John was missing his companion, sat right down for a chat. She talked about how they don’t really get many customers, but John noticed how she kept fiddling with her shirt, which was quite a bit unbuttoned. He also noticed how he _hadn’t_ particularly wanted to notice this. She was about to ask if she could buy him a drink, when,

“Ahem.”

“Oh,” she said, rather miffed when she saw Sherlock standing next to her. “Sorry, I was just about to ask if I could buy your friend here a drink- “

“Thatcher’s Gold,” Sherlock said cuttingly, “And bill it to my card.”

The waitress agreed and scuttled away, leaving behind a stormy-faced Sherlock and a very, very confused John.

“What was tha- “

“She was trying to get you into her bed,” Sherlock said with no warning. He sat down and began cutting into his fish rather violently.

“I did notice…” John said, though it sounded more like a question.

“I need you to focus on the case,” the self-proclaimed detective said, though John was not convinced.

“You know what they say about all work and no play…” John teased.

“Eat.”

Nothing more was said at the diner. Sherlock paid for the whole meal, since he said the entire ordeal was his fault, and would not listen to John’s protestations. In return, John offered to drive them both back. They said their good nights and went back to their respective rooms, and John tried- he really did try- to fall asleep, but worry for Sherlock drove him straight out of bed and right back in front of Sherlock’s door. To his surprise he heard a muffled, rather angry voice. John knew Sherlock was prone to talking to himself, but this was different. There were long pauses. It definitely sounded more like one half of a conversation. John tried the knob and the door opened; the careless git had left the door unlocked. John was going to have words with him about that.

“I _need_ it,” Sherlock was saying into his phone in a harsh whisper. He was pacing the room, one hand furiously tugging at his hair. “I don’t _care_ what Mycroft has told you- no. _No_. Fuck him!”

John got slightly closer, careful not to make a sound. He was incredibly curious as to what had Sherlock so troubled.

“Look,” Sherlock said and now he sounded more composed, though John could see that he was restless as ever. “It doesn’t have to be too much.” There was a pause, then Sherlock sighed and said, “Fine, I’ll take that. I’ll pay you when I collect-” Then there was another pause, and Sherlock froze, his back straightening up. This was very, very bad. Another moment of complete silence, then, “Fine. I’ll do it. Just make sure that he never finds out…you _know_ whom I’m talking abo- for fuck’s sake, _John_ , okay? John can never know.”

John could feel the betrayal like a physical blow to the chest. Even after all he’d done for Sherlock, the man didn’t trust him. Of course, he hadn’t known him for too long but…John had felt a special bond with his friend- something that transcended time. Clearly the sentiment was one-sided. He was about to turn and leave when,

“ _Fuck_ , Seb, fine I’ll sleep with you, just get me the stuff, okay?”

John saw red. He paced towards Sherlock, grabbed his phone and threw it at a nearby wall, taking some pleasure in the way it shattered. He hoped Seb felt that.

“Okay,” he said, taking a deep breath so his voice was relatively steady. “Do you want to tell me what the _fuck_ that was, or shall I just _deduce_?”

Sherlock seemed at a loss for words, eyes wide in shock. “I…”

John looked expectant, feeling surprisingly calm, thought the wrath and hurt boiled inside of him.

“That wasn’t…” It was strange watching the genius fumble for the right thing to say. “You weren’t meant to hear that.” Steel grey eyes stared straight down at the carpet, and broad shoulders hunched, but the man remained unmoving.

“However, I did hear,” John said, “And correct me if I’m wrong- I really hope I am- but I think I just heard you selling your body to the man who _raped_ you.”

The words seemed to send a jolt through Sherlock, and he looked up at John, terror written all over his features. In that moment, John wanted nothing more than to hold him, but he had to get to the root of this. “What was it for?” he demanded.

Sherlock sighed, knowing full well that he couldn’t get out of this one.

“Cocaine,” he muttered.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How will John respond to Sherlock's lack of self-preservation? Also, will he ever come to terms with his feelings for Sherlock?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See? I wasn't lying about intending to work more on this fic! Thanks for reading, and as always, comments and kudos are always most appreciated! :)  
> <3

Why? Why would Sherlock need to resort to drugs again? John’s mind was a whirlwind of anger, frustration, desperation, but most importantly, fear. Never had he been so afraid than he was in this moment, having just witnessed the man he loved hit the lowest of lows.

The realisation came to him much easier than he’d anticipated- not a shock that hit him in the head and bowled him over. It was more like a veil being lifted to show him what he already suspected might be there.

He was in love.

He was in love with this wonderful, brilliant, extremely stupid man, and there was nothing he could do or say to change it.

“I need it, John.” Sherlock’s voice was subdued, closed off. Head hung low in shame, he stood in the middle of the dimly lit room, not knowing what to do with his hands. “I can’t sleep, I can’t seem to focus. Sometimes I feel like I can’t breathe.”

John stood quiet and unmoving, waiting for the taller man to continue.

“The high keeps me sane, John. If it’s not drugs, it’s sex. Alcohol’s never been enough. Either way he’s going to have my body and there’s nothing that I can do about it. I…. I have no choice.”

“You always have a choice,” John said, then walked out. He walked and he walked, then he walked some more.

The sharp pang of helplessness and guilt cut through his heart like a thousand knives. Sherlock clearly needed help, but he wouldn’t take it, no matter how hard John, or even Mycroft tried. Maybe it was time to just leave, he thought. Maybe he’d overstayed his welcome in Sherlock’s life, and the young detective would probably be better off on his own.

John looked around him and realised he was in a dark forest in the middle of the night. How’s that for a cliché, he thought. The trees cast gruesome shadows, their leaves tipped silver by the moonlight. Twigs snapped under his feet as he rustled through the darkness, realising that this was, indeed, where Henry had claimed to see the hound. However, it was the loud, screeching howl that sent his blood pumping frantically.

“Fuck,” he hissed, looking around for a way back out. The darned phone had no signal around here, so he couldn’t GPS his way to the motel either. Sherlock would’ve remembered the way... No. He had to stop relying on Sherlock’s intelligence for now and use his own.

 John stopped in place, turned around and put on the torch function on his phone. He shone the light on the ground below him, hoping desperately for footprints. Though the ground was covered in branches and foliage, he managed to find vague imprints, and decided to follow them. If he were to die in the forest tonight, at least he’d have given it his best shot. Another loud howl had John pacing faster, still careful not to be too noisy.

“John!” came a loud whisper. The silhouette of a long coat was more than enough to assure John that he’d been saved. Wordlessly, John followed Sherlock through the narrow path, ducking to avoid branches from trees.

Once they were out, John’s lungs were burning, which was strange because he hadn’t really been running….or had he? He took deep gulps of air, hoping his body would co-operate, when Sherlock rounded on him, placing a pale hand on his shoulder.

“Are you alright?” he asked, eyes darting all over John’s face, then down over his body, presumably checking for injuries.

“Fine,” John wheezed. “I heard it. Sherlock, I heard the hound.”

“Yes,” Sherlock conceded. “So did I.” A pause, then, “We need to get you back.”

John simply nodded, and the two set off.

 

Sherlock wouldn’t leave his side, once they were back. He kept clucking his tongue every time John so much as scrunched his face up when his back hurt. More than once, he’d reminded John how utterly stupid it had been to go running off with no warm up or running gear, especially into unknown terrain with no map. John had ignored him, anger returning now that the adrenaline had worn off slightly.

It was around the twentieth time Sherlock had called John a complete fool, and John had had enough.

“Get out,” he said through his teeth.

Sherlock stopped mid-sentence, aiming an incredulous look at the shorter man.

“If you have nothing nice to say to me, get out of my room,” John elaborated. “Because I am tired, Sherlock. I’ve done so much for you: I’ve taken care of you when you were injured, I’ve made sure you were safe, I even kept you far away from that pillock Seb- that pillock whom you seem to go running back to, might I add.” The words were coming faster and harsher now. “I helped you with your cases, I even came to fucking Devon with you, and this is what I get? You go behind my back and ruin everything I- everything _we_ worked on, Sherlock. So yeah. I’ll be gone in the morning and you won’t need to bear any more nagging from me.”

“John, I-“

“Don’t, just… don’t.” John’s voice was final, and Sherlock seemed to deflate, before straightening back up again.

“No,” he interjected, and John was way too tired for this. “No, you’re not going anywhere.” John was about to protest, but Sherlock cut him off. “Look, John, I made a mistake. As much as I hate to admit it, I was wrong. I shouldn’t have kept anything from you, because I know you’re the only person I can trust. But you have to understand, John, if I told you I was considering using again, you’d-”

“I’d what, Sherlock?” John demanded.

“You’re the only person I don’t want to let down,” Sherlock confessed. “Mostly since you’re the only one who has come closest to appreciating the full potential of my intelligence.”

John had to roll his eyes at that. He sat down on his bed, lounging against the headrest and patted the space next to him- an invitation. Sherlock seemed to hesitate at first, then walked over and sat down next to John, fingers knotted in his lap.

“I didn’t want you to think less of me,” he said in a near whisper, and John’s heart broke for him again.

He looked at Sherlock, taking in the side of his face and the shape of his nose. “Why didn’t you just tell me it had gotten this bad?”

Sherlock sighed and looked down, still unable to meet John’s eyes. “I felt…weak. Like I was helpless against the strength of it.”

John grimaced sympathetically, hand automatically going on to Sherlock’s, and long, pale fingers grasped at shorter, tanned ones desperately. “You can’t leave, John,” he said, and the usually deep baritone seemed completely off now, even shaky. “Not after all of this, I-”

“Hey,” John soothed. “It’s okay. I’m not going anywhere.”

Sherlock looked up at John, face incredibly hopeful. “I don’t mean to hurt you by the things I say, John,” he ventured. “I just…say them.”

John had to laugh at that. “I know,” he said, rolling his eyes, then, “I need to sleep.”

Sherlock stiffened little and let go of John’s hand. “Okay,” he replied, but his voice had gone from vulnerable to robotic in 0.9 seconds and John absolutely hated it.

He grabbed at Sherlock’s hand before the man could rush out, and said, “Stay with me?”

Sherlock pretended to consider that for a few moments, then sighed exaggeratedly and said, “Fine, if I must.”

Within minutes, they were lying side by side under the covers. John wanted nothing more than to initiate some cuddling, but he was sure Sherlock would want none of that. Sherlock, surprisingly, was fast asleep way before John’s mind could even calm down! Hadn’t the man mentioned being unable to sleep at all? John was rather puzzled, but took the opportunity to sort out his own feelings.

On the one hand, Sherlock was everything he never knew he’d wanted. The man could scarcely hide his massive intellect, but there was so much more to him than that- a side that John was most certain was reserved for him. And that face…God who could resist that face? Combine that with the lanky, too-easy-to-manhandle frame and John wanted nothing more than to tie him down and fuck him into oblivion. John had to tamp that thought down before his mind could wander.

On the other hand, Sherlock was only nineteen. He was at University, for Christ’s sake! John was over half a decade older than him. Besides, he’d judged Seb six ways to Sunday when it came to sleeping with Sherlock, so why should he be any different? There was also the fact that Sherlock was probably never going to be interested in John. “Married to my work,” he’d once said. John knew he himself was quite a catch- he may not have been conventionally gorgeous, but he was fairly attractive and charming, and he was a good person. If it came down to it and if the Work wasn’t always put first, there was a fair chance Sherlock might have been interested at all.

If it came down to it, John would happily have his heart broken if it meant he’d never have to give it to anyone else.

That was his last thought before unconsciousness hit him like a freight train, knocking him right out. Vague dreams of quicksilver eyes and plush lips filled his dreams, and he felt Sherlock in his arms. The younger man was cuddling into him…no, he was writhing, with pleasure? No, something was wrong…it was almost frantic….no…

John was startled awake and the first thing he noticed was that Sherlock was, in fact, in his arms. However, John had a death grip on him, and Sherlock was desperately struggling to break free.

“Let go!” he tried to scream, but his voice was small. “Let go of me!”

John pulled his arms away immediately, sleep still clouding over most of his mind. Why was Sherlock so agitated? He watched sluggishly as the younger man shot out of bed and crouched into the nearest corner of John’s bedroom.

“Sherlock, wha-”

“Don’t you _ever_ touch me again!”

“Sherlock, I’m sorry I never meant to-”

“No!” the detective roared. “Don’t you EVER talk to me, or I’ll….John. John will help me…”

 _Oh_.

John rushed to crouch in front of Sherlock, which was probably a bad move because gangly limbs lashed out at him immediately.

“Sherlock!” John’s voice was panicked. He couldn’t watch his friend suffer in the clutches of another nightmare like this. “Sherlock, it’s me!”

“I’ll get Mycroft to have you killed!” Sherlock threatened, eyes unfocused.

“No,” John said, struggling to grab at Sherlock’s hands, “It’s me, Sherlock. It’s John.”

“John…” Sherlock muttered. “John will help me…”

“I’m here, Love,” John murmured without thought, but it seemed to calm Sherlock down almost immediately. The man blinked a couple of times, frowning as consciousness began to dawn upon him.

“John?” he asked, voice groggy and hoarse. “What’s going on?”

John stood up, releasing a breath he’d been holding for a while now, and offered Sherlock a hand, which the detective took gratefully. “Nightmare,” he informed succinctly, walking his friend back to bed and sitting him down. He rushed to the wash basin, quickly filling up a plastic cup with cold water and offering it to Sherlock, who drank it in three large gulps.

John put the cup back away, walked around the bed and climbed in next to Sherlock. He put an arm around the lanky frame, resting a head of dark curls against his collar bone and they lay like that for a long, long time.

“What did they do to you?” John whispered rhetorically, and that was all that was said.

Neither of them slept that night.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John looks deeper into the case, building up a solid background and Sherlock...sulks.  
> But then  
> PLOT TWIST!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry about the late update! I had to fly home for the summer, and packing all my stuff up was an absolute nightmare! But we're back on track now! Thank you so so much for sticking with this story. You guys are the absolute best!
> 
> Hope you enjoy this one, and do let me know what you think.
> 
> And thanks so much for the kudos and comments, guys, they push me to write more!  
> <3

The next couple of days on the case were another whirlwind of touring the small town, further interviews with Henry and his therapist, Doctor Mortimer. Sherlock had pissed John off just before that particular meeting by picking on his driving skills, saying they were quite rusty, probably due to years of sticking to the “far more inferior” bike. John had retaliated by pretending to flirt with the pretty therapist, and everyone in the room knew it was a farce; everyone but Sherlock, that is. The young detective had shut down immediately, narrating their possible leads in a clinical, detached manner, then taking a cab back to the motel, making up excuses about having to check on Baskerville again. John thought it was rather adorable, the way Sherlock tried to hide his jealousy. He was also rather flattered, but the thought of making the first move was far, far off his mind. Should anything happen between the two of them, John would much prefer if Sherlock initiated it.

He knew Sherlock wouldn’t want to talk for quite a while, was certain the kid was in one of his trademark sulks, so he chose to go to the pub attached to their motel and spend a few hours there, gathering more information. He opened his laptop up, placing it next to his pint of Stella- he _was_ working, after all- and stretched his arms above his head. Time to get down to business.

Now that he had the basic information about Sebastian, Mary, and even Irene down, it was time to dig deeper. Unbeknownst to Sherlock, John had acquired priority access to some of the Government records- all within a day, of course, thanks to Mycroft. He opened up the “top-secret” software they’d installed on his laptop, typed in the master key and looked up Sebastian first. He found exactly what he’d expected: a mundane life, four years at Uni, an internship with Shad Sanderson that eventually turned into a permanent job- the man was making a lot of money within a few years. One important- and to him, the most relevant bit of information he found was that Seb had gone to the same school as Sherlock, and was years ahead. That was strange, he thought. He couldn’t remember Sherlock mentioning this before.

Putting that thought aside, John copied down the relevant bits, compiling them with the information he’d already gathered. So far, he had a fairly solid amount of data on the dickhead, it was only a matter of time before they’d be ready to proceed.

Going back to the files, John found a “Miscellaneous” section, which contained a variety of files- JPEGs, mostly, though some videos were interspersed between them. Each had a title- a series of numbers which John quickly figured out were dates. Curious, he opened the first one, titled “080701”. What he saw broke his heart into so many little jagged pieces that felt like they were trying to pierce through the wall of his chest.

The picture showed a pair of quicksilver eyes, wide and terrified, staring right into the camera. They looked so confused and lost, almost pitiable. Sherlock didn’t have those cutting cheekbones yet, his face was a lot rounder- a lot more innocent. His lips were plusher, in the way only children’s are. He seemed to be between eight and eleven years old, though John couldn’t tell exactly, since the rest of the boy’s body was relatively tall and gangly. The one striking bit about the picture, however, was the rapidly blooming bruise on the left half of his face. It had caused that entire side to swell up, and the large tears in the child’s eyes would haunt John for the rest of his life.

He tried watching one of the videos. It was of a much older Sherlock, highly drugged, babbling about how this was the best he’d felt in years and how he was so in love with “Sebby” that he’d let him hurt him if it made the older man happy. Another video was an inventory of sorts: an account of all the scars and bruises on Sherlock’s growing body. This one had been taken by a professional of some sort, coldly making a record of each injury as a naked, freezing Sherlock was asked to turn around as if he were a puppet. What hit John the hardest about this video was the expression- or, more accurately the lack of any expression on Sherlock’s face. He had only seen the same earlier today, in a very different context, which made it much more difficult to take in.

It didn’t take very long for John to put two and two together: these files being under Sebastian’s files, along with various text files and spreadsheets, each a detailed account of every “incident”. There were pages and pages of pictures and videos of Sherlock in various states of injury and drug-addled highs. Mycroft had been collecting evidence. It astonished John how the older Holmes had had the patience to not send the bastard to prison the first chance he’d got.

Maybe he’d been waiting to make an irrefutable case. Maybe he was collecting enough ammunition.

Maybe it wasn’t his war alone.

Bloodlust now curdling in his stomach, John closed his laptop, finishing the rest of his pint and rushing back to the motel. He had to see Sherlock, had to….do _something_! Something to let Sherlock know he knew, and that he would be here no matter what. The younger man had looked so worried when John had mentioned leaving- maybe that’s why the first picture hit him so hard; it was the same expression as when he’d first been hurt. John couldn’t bear the thought of having put that look on his face. He had to see his friend. He was going to make that evil bastard pay for what he’d done.

Rushing up, he stopped by his room to drop his laptop off, when a heart-warming sight stopped him in his tracks. Bundled up in his bed, seemingly dead to the world, was a fluff of dark curls peeking above the duvet, plush mouth wide open. The soft light of his bedside lamp gave the whole scene a feeling of comfort, and John was glad- glad that this man felt comfortable enough to sleep in his bed, no worry etched into the lines of his porcelain face. Smiling affectionately, John shook his head and sat in the chair by the bed, opening his laptop back up. Honestly, he only wanted to snuggle in with Sherlock, but he wasn’t sure whether that would be crossing a line. Better safe than sorry, he always says. Relatively content, he decided to get some actual work done for his firm, apart from the Sherlock case. He didn’t want to weed through more hurt while his subject seemed so peaceful. God knows the man would pick up on it even unconsciously, what with having pronounced them to be “in sync” himself.

About half an hour in, he heard some soft moaning. Looking up, he found that Sherlock’s brows had begun to furrow, face starting to crumple in pain. The moans got gradually louder and both eyes squeezed tighter shut. It was happening again.

“Shit,” John cursed under his breath, getting up and leaving his laptop on the chair. He rushed to kneel by Sherlock’s face, placing a hand on his arm. He shook his friend. “Sherlock?” he called, then again, louder. “Sherlock! Wake up!”

Those eyes opened wide, startled, but they weren’t glassy like they had been the last time. The younger man shot up, breathing heavily as his body heaved.

“It’s okay,” John soothed, still kneeling by the bed. “It was only a dream, Sherlock.”

“Yeah,” Sherlock rasped, still gasping for breath, “Yeah. Yeah. Just a dream.”

John got up to sit beside his friend, careful not to make any sudden movements. “Here,” he said, gently placing Sherlock’s head on his right shoulder. The taller man sighed, sinking into John.

“They keep getting worse,” Sherlock confessed.

“And this hasn’t happened before…”

“Not this severely.” The deep voice was still shaky from fear, still raspy from the sleep.

“What’s changed?” John implored, one hand going up to stroke at Sherlock’s back. “Why now?”

Sherlock merely shrugged tiredly, pulling away from John and looking down into his own lap. Sighing deeply, he seemed to brace himself before saying, “You don’t have to deal with this.”

There was that voice again- clinical, detached. Emotionless. John hated that voice, especially when it was directed towards him.

“I know,” he replied and Sherlock seemed to stiffen again, so he put his hand on the taller man’s back again. “But I’m going to,” he promised, “we deal with this together, yeah?”

Those wide, lost eyes bore into him again- just like they would have years ago, had John known him then- and Sherlock bit his lip, contemplating for a moment.

Then Sherlock did something John would never in a million years see coming.

He leaned in and kissed John.

And the world was alright again.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of the big event, John and Sherlock figure the case out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right this chapter has been on my mind ever since I wrote the last one and only now did I finally get the time to write it. Thank you guys so much for the kind comments and the kudos! I appreciate it more than you can ever imagine!
> 
> Enjoy! <3

“Sherlock…” John whispered against those dry lips. His head was swimming, heart pounding so fast it felt like it was climbing up his throat with each beat. He was every teenage cliché ever. He opened his eyes to find Sherlock’s own squeezed shut, brows scrunched up.

“I’m sorry,” came the answering whisper. “I shouldn’t have taken liberties.”

“Do you want this?” John asked and the younger man opened his eyes. This close, John could see the flecks in those irises; the one on the left seemed to have a speck the other one didn’t.

Sherlock seemed annoyed at that. “Is it not obvious?” he demanded, the corners of that mouth now turning down. “Really, John, even _you_ can’t possibly be that dense. I’ve been dropping hints this whole time-” He stopped mid-sentence, then looked away quickly, cheeks flushing up.

“Hints?” John feigned innocence, mischief evident in his voice. “Really? I haven’t noticed anything of the sort.” He purposefully widened his eyes a little, imitating the way Sherlock did when he wanted to coax a favour out of someone.

The detective made an exasperated sound and rose to leave in a huff, but John wasn’t letting him go anywhere. He grabbed one delicate wrist and tugged at it, pulling the taller man back down to bed. “I’m only joking, Sherlock,” he laughed, then said more seriously, “You sure about this? ‘Cause if you want to take this last minute back, I’ll be okay with going back to-”

“No,” Sherlock interrupted, then composed himself. “I mean, thank you for that offer, but no. I don’t want to take it back.” He looked away for a moment, closing his eyes and breathing deeply. John could tell he was choosing his next words carefully. “I don’t… _do_ this. This whole affection thing. So if I were you, I wouldn’t expect much.”

John shook his head at that. Sherlock was only telling him what he already knew.

“And given what… _he_ did,” Sherlock continued, “I would very much like to take things slowly, so to speak.”

“I was going to insist on that anyway,” John added, and Sherlock gave a tiny, grateful smile. “It’s just…”

“What?” When John couldn’t finish that sentence, Sherlock turned on his superhuman deduction skills and of course the genius figured it out. “The age thing,” he concluded, and John couldn’t look at him anymore. He got up off the bed and went to sit in the armchair again. Distance was good. Distance prevented stupid decisions. “Oh John,” Sherlock chided, “Do understand that to me, age is only a number. Like your National Insurance number, or you debit card PIN- which is surprisingly repetitive, might I add, you need to change it.”

John frowned at that, then let it pass. Of course Sherlock knew his PIN.

“Either way,” the deep baritone continued, “It is information, yes, but has no impact on my emotions. Besides..” The detective looked John up and down, smiling suggestively. “You still have the body of a twenty-one year old.”

John blushed furiously, stuttering. “What do you mean “still”?” he demanded, frowning.

Sherlock laughed at that, and John wanted to capture that sound and set it as his alarm so he could wake up to it every day. The ridiculousness of the notion was thoroughly ignored by his limbic system.

“So…” he said. “You really want this, then.”

Sherlock merely nodded. “Now can we get back to the kissing?”

John shook his head and laughed, going back to bed. This kiss was longer, slower, much more explorative. The two men were learning each other, getting to know the other all over again. When they broke apart, both sighed contently, moving in for another kiss, and then another. They kissed until the sun went down, then headed to the restaurant for some dinner, before heading back up to John’s room and watching some Netflix. Then, of course, there was more kissing, followed by- and Sherlock would never admit to this in the light of day- some expert level cuddling.

That was the first night in a long, long time that Sherlock slept for more than five hours.

The next morning, John woke up to a face full of dark hair and warm, humid breathing on his neck. He smiled, nuzzling into the top of Sherlock’s head and hugged him closer to his chest. Sherlock was right- why should it matter what the age gap between the two of them was? John knew he was good for Sherlock, and he knew he would take care of the man. He also knew that he was one of the few people Sherlock had invited into his personal life, and as selfish as it seemed, John wanted to keep that privilege. Still, the nagging sensation of “not right” kept gnawing at the recesses of his mind.

“Mmm.” The deep hum vibrated against John’s throat, startling him out of his little pity party. “Stop that,” came the raspy voice, as gangly limbs tightened around John’s middle.

“Hmm?” John enquired, smiling into the dark halo of curls.

“You’re thinking,” Sherlock muttered, sounding irritated. “I can feel it. It’s annoying. Stop.”

John huffed a laugh, kissing the bossy head, then asked if Sherlock thought it was time to wake up. The reply was an angry huff and more squeezing and then, within seconds, snoring.

A few hours later, John was locked in a lab with the Hound on the loose.

“Sherlock,” he whispered harshly into his phone. “Get me out of here. You have to get me out of here!”

“Stay calm,” came the static voice.

“It’s here!” John begged.

Sherlock kept asking John to describe what he saw, and then, there it was. On all fours, the beast was almost as tall as John, red eyes burning like the fiery pits of Hell, and fur glowing ethereally.

And the next moment, the cage was being opened and a worried face captured his view.

“John.”

 

 Project HOUND. It was the fog. Sherlock had figured it out in the midst of a high pressure situation, like he always did. Maybe that was his thing, John had thought. Maybe his mind worked best when there were lives at stake.

“Oh this case, Henry,” he had laughed, triumph in his voice. “Thank you. It has been great.”

John had chided him for his lack of good timing, but honestly, he felt nothing but pride for his friend- no, boyfriend? Lover? The thought gave him way more joy than was appropriate for the situation, so instead he chased an evil scientist. Watching him get blown up to bits was enough to sober everyone down. The next morning they had taken the first train back to Paddington. Sherlock had ordered an awful sandwich, and John had a cream tea, courtesy of the now-gloating genius. John kept reminding him of how he’d missed nearly a week of lectures, to which Sherlock merely rolled his eyes and said he was more than capable of catching up, then went back to talking about the latest victory.

Now, back at Baker Street, John had forced Sherlock to sit down and go over the lecture notes online, stating clearly that he was holding all of Sherlock’s kitchen experiments ransom until Sherlock knew every word on every page he’d read. The latter had grumbled at first, but then quickly got distracted by fluorescent micrographs and stayed distracted for the next few hours. John had taken that time to unpack and rearrange all of his stuff. He hadn’t wanted to “take liberties” as his friend (he still needed to find a word that would describe what Sherlock was to him now!) would say, so he took his luggage up to the spare bedroom upstairs. Sherlock had stared at him the whole time he was walking up there, but he merely ignored that. As much as Sherlock wished he and John could communicate telepathically, they were going to have to talk about this.

That evening, John cooked them both a quick pan of stirfry noodles, managing to coax Sherlock into chopping the spring onions up for him. He’d add peppers to the list the next time: now that he knew a kiss was all it took to have him pliant and agreeable, John fully intended to take advantage of that.

In the middle of eating dinner, Sherlock cleared his throat and looked up at John. “Have you found anything of use?” he asked, though John noticed a strange emotion in his voice.

“Anything of use…”

“To the case,” Sherlock clarified and John understood.

“I uh-” John hadn’t intended to bring this up quite yet, but he supposed now was as good a time as any. “Mycroft procured some files for me,” he began, and Sherlock stiffened up, face now an unreadable mask. “And I went through them all. Every single one.” He stretched his arm across the table and put his hand on Sherlock’s. “Sherlock…” The younger man promptly got up, grabbed his coat and scarf, and left the apartment.

Sighing, John cleared the table. They were going to talk about this. John only had to find a better opportunity to bring it up again.

That night, John slept in his own bed. He didn’t hear Sherlock open the main door, climb up the few stairs and slide in next to him.

He most definitely didn’t smile and wrap his arms around the taller man.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some trouble ensues, as John and Sherlock try and feel their way through this new relationship thing. Sherlock has issues, and John has plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay I have to admit, this story is beginning to write itself at this point. I'm a mere scribe to the Gods of fanfic. But thank you so much for reading, and keep the comments coming, people, I absolutely love reading them! 
> 
> Thanks! <3

John was rapidly getting accustomed to waking up with a face imprinted with dents from Sherlock’s hair. The younger man pressed so tightly into him when he slept, he almost fancied that Sherlock needed John. He kissed Sherlock’s forehead, then rubbed his hand down that slender back. It was only when Sherlock shifted his legs in his sleep that John realised the git wasn’t wearing any trousers. Groaning, he shook his head, just knowing he’d woken up with morning wood.

‘Why, God?’ he thought desperately. ‘Why must you torment me so?’  Sherlock had mentioned he wanted to take it slow, so the last thing he needed right now was to be jarred awake by a hard penis poking against his hips. John tried to move away, but he was squeezed into place by surprisingly strong, lanky arms. When he tried to save his dignity by shifting his hips so they weren’t so….adjacent to Sherlock’s own, Sherlock moaned in annoyance.

“Don’t,” he commanded, voice low and rumbly from sleep and fuck if that didn’t go straight down to where it really, really wasn’t needed.

“Sherlock, I need to use the bathroom,” John said, and that was partially true.

“Hold it,” was the succinct reply.

And now John was thinking of Sherlock holding his cock. Great.

“Sherl-”

“No!” The stubborn man then proceeded to shift so that he was now lying on top of John.

“Jesus, Sherlock!” John wheezed against the sudden weight. “Give a guy a warning, would you?”

Sherlock huffed at that and began to wriggle, trying to get comfortable, and John really, _really_ wished he wouldn’t, because sooner or later he was going to feel it and-

Sherlock froze, leaning up and opening his eyes. He looked at John, as if looking for confirmation that it was what he thought it was. John could only look away, embarrassed and worried he’d scare his new partner off before they’d even had a chance. Just as he’d anticipated, Sherlock got off him to lie on his side and stare quietly at the ceiling.

“I’m so sorry,” John mumbled, ashamed.

“Why are you sorry?!” Sherlock sounded genuinely surprised.

“Well, you said you wanted to take it slow and this-”

“Is a natural biological reaction, often solely due to proximity,” Sherlock interrupted, then looked at John, an undecipherable glint in his eyes. “Is it solely due to proximity, John?”

John blushed hard at that, squeezing his eyes shut. He was meant to be the grown up one- instead there he was, blushing like a maiden, cock still half erect. “No,” he admitted, opening one eye to peek at Sherlock’s reaction. To his surprise, the younger man was smiling unabashedly. John had to smile back, because that’s what his brain was programmed to do: follow Sherlock in every way. “Um…” John cleared his throat, bracing himself. “You should know that I don’t expect anything…of that sort. You know, sexual stuff.” The detective’s eyes were now comically wide, lips pressed together as if he was about to burst with laughter. John frowned, offended that Sherlock was taking this so lightly. “I mean it, Sherlock,” he continued, disregarding any mockery. “This-” he indicated towards his crotch- “doesn’t mean anything.”

“Oh John,” Sherlock said fondly, now turning his entire body to face John’s. “It means everything.”

He leaned forward to kiss John, slowly and thoroughly, until the lawyer melted into his pillow. Pulling back, he waited for John to open his eyes, then said, “I know you won’t push me, John. And if ever I feel rushed, I’ll tell you.” And when John nodded, Sherlock kissed him again, this time, picking up the pace a little. “I want you,” he rumbled.

“But-” John’s protestations were cut off with another kiss, much harder this time, and then, “Open your mouth.” John obliged, parting his own lips, and Sherlock wasted no time slipping his tongue between them. He explored John’s mouth like he had explored his persona, and found that this too was just as warm and welcoming.

In one swift move, Sherlock rolled over on top of John, their kisses now scorching, breaths mingling. John had ceded control of the situation, allowing Sherlock to make all the moves, like he often did under most circumstances. He was constantly aware of Sherlock’s reactions though, and he’d bring this to a halt the second he sensed any discomfort. For now, though, there was an eager tongue tied around his own, and frantic hands in his hair. To his surprise, Sherlock planted his hips over John’s own, beginning a slow, grinding motion.

John stopped. Pushing Sherlock away very slightly, he looked at the detective’s face.

“What?” Sherlock asked, and though he’d contorted his face to look annoyed, his eyes were wounded.

“Are you sure this isn’t too soon?” John asked. As much as he wanted more of that delicious grinding, his priority for now was Sherlock.

Sighing, Sherlock closed his eyes and pulled away. He got off John’s lap and sat by his knees. John sat up as well and placed a hesitant hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Talk to me,” he requested.

“It’s unreasonable!” Sherlock blurted. “It’s unreasonable to expect you to follow my every whim.”

“Why do you say that?” the older man implored.

“Because, John,” Sherlock whined. “You are by no means unattractive, and you can be incredibly charming when you want to be, and that means you can have almost any person you desire. So why wouldn’t you go seek a physical relationship elsewhere, with someone who is more than willing to give you what you want?!”

John flinched at that. “Is that what you think this is? This whole thing with us, you think it’s about sex?”

“It’s not your fault, John, it’s only natural for a young, fertile man to want to-”

“Shut up,” John cut him off, getting off the bed and standing a few feet away, looking straight at the back of Sherlock’s head. “Just shut up, Sherlock. You’ve been reading way too much Freud- don’t give me that look, I’ve seen you sneaking his papers into your bag before you go to lectures.”

“Well he is right!” Sherlock was defensive now.

“He bloody well might be,” John conceded, “But you aren’t. This thing between us, Sherlock? It’s not about sex. Well, not only that.”

“Oh?” Sherlock sneered, now standing up to face John. “Do enlighten me, _John_. What _is_ it about? Emotions? Companionship?” He then looked straight into John’s eyes, face twisted into a jeer. “ _Love_?”

“Fuck you,” John spat. “Fuck you, you prick! All this time I spent, thinking I was doing right by you against what my ex-girlfriend did to you-”

“So what, you thought if you made me feel happy for a bit, that I’d get better and you could rid yourself of the guilt? Well I do not want your pity anymore!” Sherlock roared and his words hit John hard.

“Pity?” John asked, voice breaking, then he took a deep breath, steadying himself. “Look, you’re right. At first, I did feel guilty for what she did to you- I still do. But please, you have to know that that’s not why I’m here. I’m here because of you, Sherlock, _for_ you.”

Sherlock frowned at John, uncomprehending, then asked a simple question. “Why?”

John gave him a small, sad, almost imperceptible smile, and shrugged, sighing and rubbing a hand over his face. “I’m sorry,” he said, defeated. “I’m sorry I yelled, and I’m sorry I made you feel like I’m here because I pity you.” He walked back to the bed and kneeled on to it, holding a hand out. “Please?”

The fight seemed to visibly leave Sherlock, as his shoulders slumped. He took John’s hand, and they both sat with their backs against the headboard. John kept Sherlock’s hand in his own and began to stroke the back of it. He was surprised at just how soft the skin here was.

“I’ve never had anyone care for me like this,” Sherlock admitted after a few long minutes of silence. “Not without a motive.”

“You’re wrong,” John said gently, “Your brother has always cared about you.”

Sherlock snorted at that.

“I mean it,” John continued, “All this time, Sherlock, he’s been gathering evidence.”

“I know,” Sherlock grumbled. “It’s so he can feel superior. ‘Oh look, I have evidence of Sherlock’s disturbing, awful past!’ It’s his way of feeling like the good child.”

“You just don’t get it, do you?” John was seriously confused. How could Sherlock be so blind to his brother’s affection? “He loves you, Sherlock. In his own way, he does. The reason he collected all of those pictures and videos is so he has an unbeatable case.”

“So why didn’t he use it all and send Seb to prison sooner?!”

John sighed at that. “I don’t know,” he confessed. “But I promise you, Love, I’ll make sure these few days are his last as a free man.”

Sherlock paused, waiting to see if John had noticed just what he’d said. “John….you just called me…Love…”

John just shrugged it off, hoping Sherlock would let it pass as a common phrase in John’s vocabulary- even though they both knew full well that John hadn’t called anyone else that. Not since Mary, anyway. “I’m going to make him suffer,” John vowed, looking Sherlock straight in the eye. “The fucking bastard’s gonna wish he’d never met you.”

Sherlock grinned at that, leaning in to kiss John soundly again.

A few hours later, when Sherlock was safely away at the first of his lectures for the day, John grabbed his laptop bag and rode to his work place. It felt like ages since he’d last been there, and though they’d said they were more than happy to have him work from home for as long as he needed to, John felt rather guilty for having taken so many days off. He was greeted by several co-workers who seemed surprised and curious, but John would just have to keep them guessing. He wasn’t one to talk much at work, never engaging in “gossip around the water-cooler”.

Once at his desk, John requested a meeting with the directors of his firm. He had plans for today.

***

“Mr. Watson.” A tall man with skin the colour of chocolate and hair cropped down to an inch, got up to shake John’s hand.

“Mr. Richmond,” John said courteously, moving on to shake hands with a shorter, stouter, much paler man. “Mr. Crossley.”

“Please,” said Richmond, pointing towards an empty chair. “Have a seat.”

“Thank you.” John sat down, the blood in his veins thrumming. This meeting could go one of two possible ways, and he really hoped it went the right way, for the sake of his career.

“So,” Mr. Crossley began in his raspy voice, “What brings you here, Johnny boy?”

“It’s about two cases I’m working on, Sir,” John stated, “They seem to have a conflict of interests.”

There was a moment’s silence, then Mr. Richmond sighed and got up, walking over to his desk to pour everyone a finger of whiskey.

Statements like these never made for the start of an easy conversation.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has the strangest day of his life, and Sherlock has an epiphany. It all ends up fine though...or so John hopes.

“I got fired.”

Sherlock was sat in his chair, some research paper or other in his hands. “On what grounds?” he asked, not looking up from said paper.

“On the grounds that ex is a fucking wanker,” John groused, walking to the kitchen and absent-mindedly filling the kettle up. He ignored how his words caused Sherlock to flinch a little bit. “Apparently, I haven’t been cautious enough while choosing my cases, and should have known better than to take on a second case which directly conflicts with my first one.”

Sherlock hummed at that. “And why do _you_ think they fired you?”

John put the kettle down and just stared at his partner.

“Oh come on,” said Sherlock, “You wouldn’t be so upset if you thought they were right- you’re the most morally righteous man I’ve known. So why do you think they fired you?”

John sighed. “The Sanderson case makes them more money.”

Sherlock didn’t seem surprised. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

John slouched, setting the kettle to boil and walking over to Sherlock, sitting on the arm of his chair. “It was bound to happen sooner or later,” he said, trying to make light of the situation, “I’m wasted as a lawyer.”

Sherlock frowned, putting his paper down and straightening in his seat. “That’s not true, John!” he exclaimed. “You’ve won a lot more cases than you’ve lost, and you were certain you’d be Director one day.”

“Yeah, well, not gonna happen.”

Sherlock put his hand on John’s, squeezing it tightly. “Hey,” he said, waiting for John to look at him. “We’ll figure something out. Don’t worry about the money, Mycroft will be more than happy to help us in our time of need. He does love his sentiments, almost as much as he loves it when people owe him.”

“But what about the case?” John didn’t much care for his career in Law. He’d made peace with the fact that he’d have to let it go one day- professionals usually meet their ends sooner rather than later, and John was no exception. He did, however, want to bring Sherlock justice.

“I’m sure someone else will take it on for us.”

“You mean Mycroft will make someone take it,” John corrected, laughing dryly. He just knew that no one else would be as passionate about the case as he was. At least he wouldn’t have to worry about the background data, since he’d collected a lot of it himself and could just pass the files on. That depended on how lenient their new lawyer would be, but they’d just have to wait and see.

When the kettle went off, Sherlock was the one who got up to go fix tea, telling John to sit down, and that he was “headed towards the kitchen anyway” so John shouldn’t “feel flattered”. John couldn’t help himself.

John spent the next few hours solving crosswords on all the newspapers he had read that week and didn’t know what to do with; “Solving” was a loose term, it was basically John trying his hardest, and when he felt like he absolutely couldn’t guess the word, he’d read the clue out to Sherlock, who’d just give him the answer without looking away from his paper. John was on his fifth crossword when his phone buzzed with an email.

From Wilkes.

‘Dear Mr. Watson,

We were disheartened to hear that you and Crossley-Richmond have decided to go separate ways. We appreciate all the work you’ve done for us, and do hope you find success in the future of your career.

Many thanks,

S. Wilkes’

John could almost hear the malice dripping from the words. He wanted to fling his phone out the window. He wanted to punch the walls.

“John.” It was almost as if Sherlock could sense his frustration. “Do not let him get to you.”

“I need a drink,” was the choked reply. “Or seven.”

“I’ll go with you,” said Sherlock, which was rather unexpected: he never usually offered. At John’s surprised face, he said, “Oh do stop, John, it’s only because I don’t want you injuring yourself on your way home. You know how much you love your alcohol.”

***

“You’re beaaauuutifullll,” John slurred, glazed eyes looking at Sherlock’s blurred form.

“And you’re drunk,” Sherlock retorted.

“And unemployed.”

“Touché.”

They’d both had the same number of pints, except John had been doing double shots of vodka between his. He knew he couldn’t argue with Sherlock’s deduction because Sherlock was always right. And John was having trouble getting into his phone; that was just as well, because if he could, his ex-employers would probably wake up to very strange, very explicit voicemails the next day. He didn’t really register much else from that night, except vague memories of being put into a cab, drooling on Sherlock’s shoulder, and then being put to bed…and drooling some more.

When he woke up, it was still blessedly dark outside- he didn’t think he could take any light at this point. To his surprise, however, John was alone in bed. He reached out to the side table and found a glass of water and drank it slowly, his throat feeling like sandpaper. Drinking the water made him feel like there were burning arrows shooting down towards his gut but he knew it was better dealt with now, rather than later. The hangover hadn’t kicked in yet- truth be told, John was still somewhere between slightly drunk and extremely tipsy. His mind seemed relatively clear, if a little slow, but his limbs seemed to be doing things they shouldn’t.

He heard pacing downstairs, so he made the monumental decision to get out of bed, put some pyjama bottoms on- why was he in his boxers?!- and head towards the sounds.

Sherlock seemed rather restless, walking across the living room like a man possessed. He’d clearly been fidgeting with his hair, since the curls were now standing up bizarrely. John thought it was rather adorable, but knew that if he mentioned it, Sherlock would merely pout and not talk for an hour.

“What are you doing?” John rasped, and Sherlock jumped. That took John back. Sherlock was _never_ caught off guard. He must have been really frazzled. John stayed by the foot of the stairs, not wanting to startle him anymore with sudden movements.

“ _You_ ,” said Sherlock, quickly focussing on John, stalking towards him. “You are impossible.”

John was entirely too tired for this, but before he could get a word in, Sherlock grabbed at his shoulders and pushed him against the wall.

“Sherl-”

“Shut up,” Sherlock hissed, leaning in to breathe John in. “You lost your job today. You probably have a bad track record now, too. No one else is ever going to take you in.”

“Yes, thank y-”

“I said _shut up_!” Sherlock pinned his whole body against John’s, effectively trapping him. “Did they offer you a choice?”

John was shocked. He had decided never to mention this to Sherlock, but it seemed like the detective had figured it out anyway.

“Did they. Offer you. A choice?”

John nodded meekly, eyes trained on the floor. He didn’t understand why Sherlock was so upset, but he was determined to coax more words out of the man.

“It was about me, wasn’t it?” Sherlock now pulled away, standing back, but leaving barely an inch between them. John nodded again. “What was it?”

John looked up at Sherlock, and he could tell that Sherlock knew, but he wanted to hear the words anyway. “Drop your case and keep my job,” he said in one breath, then shrugged. “So I quit my job.”

Sherlock shook his head, uncomprehending. “But you’ve worked with them for so long!” He pushed John’s shoulders against the wall again, searching his eyes desperately. “Why would you throw it all away?” John said nothing. “Tell me, John, why would you give up everything your life has ever amounted to?”

In the next second, he was kissing John full on the mouth, swiping his tongue against John’s lower lip, and then into his mouth. Slender hands fumbled with the waistband of John’s pyjamas, pushing them and his boxers down in one fluid motion.

“Sherlock!” John called harshly.

“Just let me,” said the taller man, going down on his knees and looking up at John with what John, in his drunken state, thought was devotion written all over his face. Then again, John was still drunk and Sherlock would never feel that way for anyone, let alone John. And yet here he was, a young, gorgeous lad with a bright future and an even brighter mind, on the floor, about to suck off an unemployed lawyer in his mid-thirties. And as much as John wanted to stop him, it had been too long, and he’d dreamt about this way too much.

“Just let me,” Sherlock repeated breathily, taking John’s soft member in his hand.

Sherlock placed little kisses on the head, all the way up the shaft, licking and sucking every now and again, feeling it engorge under his ministrations. When it was hard enough, he set a slow rhythm, bobbing and sucking and licking in all the right ways, to the point where John struggled to hold his groans in. Tanned hands made their way to dark ringlets, tugging gently, careful not to push hard enough to choke the younger man. It didn’t take long for John to reach his brink.

“Sherlock,” John gasped, “I’m- I’m gonna-”

Sherlock pulled off quickly, finishing John off with his hand as he spilt on to his own boxers, and a little bit on to Sherlock’s t-shirt.

“Oh Jesus,” he breathed, sinking to the floor, as Sherlock got up and walked off, returning moments later with a kitchen roll. John cleaned himself up and apologised for getting semen on to Sherlock’s clothes which the latter brushed off. All cleaned up, John attempted to kiss Sherlock, but the younger man kept it chaste, happy to share affection, but not wanting to take things further. They didn’t talk about it, mostly because Sherlock looked like he’d need some time to process what had just happened, and John didn’t want to push it.

Instead, they went for a walk in the dark, 4 A.M. coolness enveloping them. They walked around London for a bit, marvelling at how the city was still so wide awake, then went to a 24 hour fast food joint and bought ice creams. It was silly and childish and just what John needed after a roller-coaster of a day. He didn’t want to think about the recent event quite yet, still basking in the afterglow….sort of.

When they were walking back, Sherlock took John’s hand in his own, pretending nothing was out of the ordinary. John was more than happy to play along, tugging on Sherlock’s arm when he got too lost in his own thoughts.

It was when Sherlock tugged way too sharply and let go of his hand that John turned around.

Sherlock was on the floor, face up, and there was a bloody bullet wound on his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoa I think I just had a George R. R. Martin moment! Ohhh boy do I have surprises in store for you!
> 
> As always, thank you so much for sticking with the story. This is probably the longest piece of writing I've ever produced so far, and it isn't anywhere near done! However, it wouldn't have been possible without all the kudos and comments and more importantly, your support, so please keep them coming!
> 
> Hope you enjoy! <3


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of the shooting, John's mind is a swirling vortex of terror, and that's putting it mildly. Cue a Mycroft intervention!

“When it’s a scary time, call nine-nine-nine!”

The overtly cheery, sing-song voice of his primary school teacher played on repeat in his head, about a thousand times per second. It was a stupid rhyme. She was a stupid woman. Who had even employed her? She didn’t deserve to live. Not as much as Sherlock did. His Sherlock. His friend. The love of his life, if such a thing exists, and should it cease to exist tonight, so would he.

White noise and blackness: and odd pair, those two. They seemed to be surrounding him simultaneously, turning the world around him grey. Like Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock, to whom the world was black and white. Good and evil. The evil that had just taken away all that was good in his life.

Tried, he corrected himself. Tried to take it away. He had to believe they would survive this. And then he would find whoever did this, and do worse to them. Much worse. Clearly anyone who chose to hurt Sherlock out of free will deserved way more than he could ever dish out. That shot was no accident: it was an expert hit which seemed to come from a reasonable distance, tearing through all that he held dear.

Sherlock. Sherlock was coughing.

No, don’t. You’ll hurt yourself. Just like you hurt me, all the time. But that’s okay, we can heal together.

Sherlock was beginning to shiver. No, seize. He was going into shock. Numb fingers took off a belt from ratty jeans to put it between Sherlock’s teeth. He better not bite his tongue: he does love to talk.

He doesn’t recall calling for help, not vocally anyway, but in about seven minutes, there was an ambulance. And now they were throwing Sherlock on to a stretcher. He wanted to yell at them, wanted to berate them for being so careless. The man that was on that stretcher had been breathless, coughing up blood now. He wanted to shake them till they saw just how precious that body was. That body that he still hadn’t touched. All of that skin that he still hadn’t explored. That temple that held the most beautiful brain that he still hadn’t experienced all of.

He imagined it would be like a factory inside Sherlock’s brain- everything neatly organised, a fully functional system. Each object had a place, and each name had a face. And somewhere in there, he would have a room to himself. Maybe the room where broken emotions went to heal. He quite fancied himself a healer.

At the hospital, they wouldn’t let him into the Operation Theatre, wouldn’t even let him watch. They drew up blinds, saying he wasn’t related, that he had no rights here. He wanted to shout in their faces about how he was one of the very few people Sherlock _would_ want in that room with him. He wanted to kick and scream at them till they saw just how big this…this _thing_ that they had was. But they would never know. No one would ever know. Because no one was him.

And there was a strong chance that Sherlock would never know, either.

It was funny, he thought, that Sherlock was the one who got shot, and yet it was John’s heart that had been ripped into pieces.

***

Daylight brought with it new bustling, though the feeling wasn’t new to John. His mind had been a whirlwind for hours now. The few sips of coffee he tried to drink, he threw up within minutes. Mycroft had sent in one of his lackeys to sort things out with the hospital staff, though it hadn’t done much good. Sherlock was still in surgery. Apparently the bullet had shattered a little bit, puncturing his left lung. Kind of like Iron Man, John thought in his hysterical state. How fitting that Sherlock should, in fact, be a superhero.

He paced for hours, sat in one position for a few more, then got up and stretched when his back started to cramp up, and then paced even more.

“Mr. Watson?”

John whirled around to see a young woman in scrubs with what seemed like splashes of blood on them. The very thought of Sherlock bleeding out made him sick. He didn’t know how the girl did it- she couldn’t have been older than twenty-five.

“Is he okay?” John asked frantically.

“He’s sustained a pretty severe injury,” she said gravely, though if Sherlock were here, he’d have berated her for stating the obvious. “However, he’s pulled through. The bullet acted like a cork, preventing him from haemorrhaging, which made our job easier.” She smiled briefly. “He’ll need rest. A lot of it, but-” John held his breath- “He’ll be okay.”

John’s brain just…stopped. Complete radio silence, clear as a crystal.

Sherlock- his Sherlock was going to be okay.

His knees went wobbly and the woman helped him into a nearby chair. His breathing slowed down eventually, becoming less laboured and more unconscious. Through his mind echoed the words from a few moments ago.

“He’ll be okay.” Over and over again. He’ll be okay.

John had to see him. He asked, in a shaky voice, if he could. The woman said he’d be invited to, once they had wheeled Sherlock into Intensive Care. She then showed John into one of the On-Call rooms, though she made him promise not to tell anyone she’d let him in.

John slept for a whole hour.

***

When Sherlock came to, it was with a small jerk. He seemed like he was having trouble opening his eyes, though that might be because his eyelids were swollen.

“Jawwnn…” was the first thing he slurred, and though John had other, more important things to worry about, his heart fluttered.

“I’m here,” he said, pulling his stool closer to the side of Sherlock’s bed. He had been instructed to keep his voice low and calm, so as not to shock Sherlock’s senses. They’d put him on a lot of morphine- understandably, of course- and they’d mentioned he’d be loopy for quite a while.

“It hurts…” Sherlock frowned subtly, clearly unable to control the muscles of his face yet.

John gave him a small, sympathetic smile. “The morphine will kick in soon, Love.”

“Mmm drugs,” Sherlock joked, and John was glad the bullet hadn’t been aimed at his head.

This was what he lived for now- Sherlock’s twisted sense of humour.

Just as he’d predicted, the morphine started to take effect, and Sherlock seemed slightly more at ease. John had wanted to turn it up so Sherlock could sleep through the worst of it, but Sherlock insisted on staying awake.

“Don’t wanna waste any more time,” he grumbled hazily.

“Hmm?” John enquired, not quite understanding.

“Stay with me,” Sherlock said. “Always. Forever. Don’t ever leave. Don’t wanna die alone.”

John felt his stomach drop. How could the boy even think John would allow that?

Oh wait. John had said so himself. He’d threatened to leave when he found out that Sherlock had called Wilkes and begged for drugs. Then again, John had felt like he was intruding.

“Never,” John reassured, combing his fingers through matted curls. “I’ll never leave you, okay?”

Sherlock smiled dopily, humming in affirmation. John could only smile back.

They were interrupted by the soft clearing of a throat. John turned to see Mycroft standing at the door, his bland grey suit seeming to fit the decorum of white on white they seemed to have here.

“Are you well, little brother?” Mycroft tried to be sarcastic, though John knew more than well enough how genuinely concerned the man was. It baffled him why the two brothers would keep up the facade of nonchalance like this when they clearly knew they didn’t hate each other. Well, not as much as they said anyway.

“Quite well, and you?” Sherlock’s sarcasm was sharp as always, even when drug-addled.

“Now that we have the pleasantries out of the way,” Mycroft began, walking in and standing a few feet away from the foot of the bed. “We need to discuss the shooting.”

“Do we have to?” John asked, slightly annoyed. “Sherlock’s still recovering, it could-”

Sherlock let out a short bark of laughter. “Well aren’t you sweet,” he mocked, then turned to Mycroft. “Any sign of the shooter?”

Miffed, John sat back in his chair, grumbling to himself.

“Not a very clear one, though we have circumstantial evidence,” said Mycroft. “There’s someone we’ve been tracking since your…incident, and they’ve been seen using cash points and public transport- we have records of all of it- and also entering the building where the gun had been fired from- footage from a CCTV camera in the lobby.”

“It’s Wilkes,” John said, voice laced with venom. “It has to be. The bastard can’t bear the thought of-”

“It wasn’t Mr. Wilkes,” Mycroft corrected gently.

“No motive,” Sherlock added.

“No motive?!” John was bewildered. “Have you met him? He hates you. He can’t bear the thought of seeing you happy, especially now that he knows you’re not going to go begging back to him.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, but John stood his ground.

“You are _not_ going back to him. I won’t let you.” John levelled his best ‘Don’t-fuck-with-me’ look at Sherlock, and the younger man seemed to cower.

“It wasn’t Mr. Wilkes,” Mycroft repeated, and John was really angry now.

“Well who was it then?!” he demanded.

“You’re not going to like this…” The older Holmes trailed off.

That could only mean one thing. John took a deep breath.

“Mary.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay this chapter probably took me the longest to write, in that I had to physically force myself to put it away and come back to it the next day. It was mostly because the first half was surprisingly emotionally draining! You don't realise just how much a story can take out of you, eh?
> 
> Either way, thank you so much for reading, I hope I've done John's character justice.
> 
> Oh and before you guys pounce at me, I must mention I don't hate Mary. As a Johnlock shipper, much as I'm annoyed at her "interfering" into the lovely rapport between John and Sherlock, I still think she was a lovely addition to the show. I've only used her as a negative character here because I was looking for a specific set of traits in my villains and she seemed to fit the part. The role wasn't written for her, she was written into the role...if that makes any sense.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you're enjoying the story so far, and please let me know what you think! My favourite thing to do in the mornings is to check for comments on here, so please please keep them coming! :) You can also hit me up on my tumblr for fic suggestions, prompts, possibly reviews? Pop me a message at ohimadeitallup.tumblr.com even just to say hi! :D
> 
> Finally, CONGRATULATIONS, AMERICA! I'M SO THRILLED FOR EVERYONE WHO IS NOW ABLE MARRY WHOMEVER THEY LOVE! This is a beautiful step towards a more accepting society. :D  
> Thanks! <3


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's confrontation with Mary goes exactly as planned...until it doesn't. He discovers a side of him he didn't even know existed- it probably shouldn't exist.

John was going to kill her. He was going to fucking flay the skin off her back. His mind was a dangerous storm as he got on to his bike, riding off to find her without even bothering to grab his helmet. He knew he wouldn’t die today. Not before he’d killed her.

He parked, taking the two flights of stairs swiftly, before banging hard on the door. It was impossible to think that John had once shared that door with her. True, it had been her flat and he’d moved in, but it had eventually evolved to be _their_ flat. Not anymore. Never again.

When Mary answered the door, John pushed hard, barging in, his body language emanating formidable wrath.

“ _You_ ,” he growled, advancing towards her. “You fucking _bitch_!”

“John, let me explain.”

So it _was_ her. And she knew that he knew.

“ _Explain what?!_ ” John roared. “Why you almost killed my-” He wasn’t sure whether it would be wise to let on about his relationship with Sherlock- the detective was clearly still vulnerable to attacks.

“Your what?” Mary caught on, eyes narrowing suspiciously. “Boyfriend? _Lover_?!” she sneered, shaking her head. At John’s shocked face, she merely said, “Oh come on, John, you’ve been in love with him from day one. Figures that you’re a cocksucker, you were always quite particular about hygiene.”

John stood paralysed with rage. “One more word,” he warned.

“And what? You gonna kill me?” she enticed. “Go ahead. Try.”

Taking a deep breath, John clenched his jaw. “Why?” he asked through his teeth. “Why can’t you just leave us be?”

Mary snorted, pushing a stray blonde curl behind her ear. “Don’t flatter yourself. It wasn’t because I was jealous. It was a contracted hit.”

That gave John pause. “ _What_?”

“I was paid to shoot your precious faggot-”

John grabbed her by the neck, pinning her against the wall. His hand was hard enough on her throat that she couldn’t speak, but not so hard that she couldn’t breathe.

“Don’t you _ever_ talk about him like that,” he said, echoing a vaguely familiar sentiment from the past. His face was less than an inch from hers, blue eyes almost all pupil. Anger curdled in his stomach, sending his blood boiling. “I will ask you questions, you nod yes or no, is that clear?” When she didn’t respond, he closed his fist tighter around her throat. She gasped, eyes widening impossibly, then nodded furiously. John could feel her fear, and it made him ecstatic.

“Good,” he said, loosening his grip slightly. “Someone paid you to shoot at Sherlock.” A nod.

“Someone I know?” This time, she shook her head.

“Were you meant to kill him?” She shook her head no again, which puzzled John. “Okay. I’m going to let you go now. If you try and pull a move- or a gun- on me, I _will_ kill you.”

When he pulled his hand away, the sudden rush of air caused Mary to launch into a coughing fit, gasping and wheezing desperately.

“Why you?” John asked, keeping his eyes trained on her, in case she tried to pull a fast one on him.

“Debts,” she rasped, voice hoarser than John had ever heard it.

“You owe someone?”

“Owed,” she corrected, steps wobbly as she walked towards the kitchen sink. “I’m free now.” She filled up a glass of water, sipping at it cautiously, fingers going up to rub at what she assumed would be bruises on her neck, but John had been careful not to leave any, using the palm of his hand, rather than his fingers, to choke her. The less evidence she had, the better.

“What did you owe them?”

“I don’t have to tell you,” she challenged, never one to cower.

“Yes, you do. You owe me now,” John said, cold eyes giving her a level stare.

Sighing, she said, “My life. I owed him my life.”

“Whom?”

She’d almost declined to answer, but John merely raised his eyebrows, causing her to sigh again. “There’s a name,” she relented, “A name that no one says. And I’m not gonna say it either.”

“Yes,” he corrected, “You are.”

Mary tried to keep the upper hand, but John knew she was panicking on the inside. She’d always got this look on her face when John had asked about her “book club”- it was the same look she had now. The only difference was that John could read her now.

“Give me a name,” John said, voice steady, and Mary shook her head, eyebrows knitting together. John began to walk towards her threateningly, taking purposefully slow steps, allowing her time to change her mind. “A name,” he prompted again, and watched her eyes grow wide, as if someone had threatened her with her own gun. She walked back till she was flush against the kitchen counter, feeling a draft send chills down her spine. John walked right into her personal space, opening a drawer to her left. All his inhibitions, all his morals had gone flying out of that kitchen window. He pulled out a knife, clutching it in his hand and stared at her for a while, giving her another chance.

Mary noticed the knife and droplets of sweat began to form on her normally perfect skin. She watched in morbid awe as the man she once thought too stupid to catch her cheating, brought the knife up to her throat, blade pressing into the sensitive skin there.

“Give me the name, Mary.” John’s voice was still level, hands steady- one on the knife, the other going to clutch at the soft blonde hair at the nape of her neck. She still declined and John was astonished at how much she was willing to risk to conceal an identity. This man might have been bloody terrifying.

“The name.”

 He now began to apply pressure on to the knife, breaking skin and watching in sinister satisfaction as droplet of red began to appear, dripping down her neck and pooling in the dip between her collar bones. At one point, she cried out in pain, unable to hold it in any longer.

“ _The name!_ ” he yelled.

“Moriarty!” she blurted, then looked as if she’d just made the biggest mistake of her life.

John pulled back immediately, but before he could even contemplate patching her up, her back arched unnaturally, face contorting into a deeply-etched frown, and she fell where she stood.

“Mary!” John screamed, sitting down next to her. A pool of blood began to form as he desperately pressed two fingers just below her jaw, looking for a pulse. He found none.

Mary was dead.

 

***  


John stood outside the morgue, rain pattering down on his back like a thousand pin-pricks. It was his fault Mary was dead. He had no clue about who shot her, but the fact that it was immediately after she’d told him the name couldn’t possibly be a co-incidence.

It all made sense now- why Mary was so scared to give him a name, and if he hadn’t pushed - fuck, if he hadn’t basically threatened to kill her himself - she might have been alive. He wasn’t going to go through with it, of course, but she didn’t know that, and that’s why it had worked. To her, she was dead anyway. She could very well have kept the name a secret and died at his hands, so why did she decide to help him? Maybe she did have a shred of decency after all, John thought. Or maybe it was guilt. Maybe, now that she was free of any debt from this Moriarty guy, she was ready to give him away.

John had called several of Mary’s contacts to give them the news. None of them showed up to see her one last time. That made John feel even worse, guilt crushing down upon him like an avalanche. This is what Sherlock had talked about- dying alone. He’d vowed never to let that happen- not just to Sherlock, but to anyone at all, if he could help it. And yet, here he was at a one-man funeral, only there because he happened to be around when Mary died. He knew he could never live this down, and there was no possible explanation that would earn him forgiveness. He was going to hell, and there was no turning back.

Sighing, he straightened his back, walking to the edge of the pavement and hailing a cab. Within minutes he was at the hospital where Sherlock was admitted. He was surprised to learn that they’d moved Sherlock to a private ward- Mycroft’s doing, no doubt. When he walked in, the first thing he noticed was just how annoyed his partner looked, deep in an argument with his brother.

“John!” he called, relief evident on his tired face, and John couldn’t help but give him a small smile. “Where the _hell_ have you been?!” Only then did he seem to register John’s state, and the worry on his face caused the older Holmes to turn to look as well.

“I’ll…leave him to you now,” Mycroft said quickly, getting up to place a sympathetic hand on John’s shoulder, then walking out. Say what you would, but Mycroft always knew when he really, really wasn’t needed. And he always knew about every new development.

Sullen, John walked to stand by Sherlock’s bed, which was much larger than the previous one, then collapsed into the plush armchair next to it.

“John?” Sherlock asked, and the concern was evident in his voice. His grey eyes searched John’s own, but John didn’t want him to deduce anything. He wanted to be the one to tell Sherlock.

“Mary’s dead,” he said quietly, voice beginning to waver as the adrenaline wore off.

Sherlock froze.

“It was my fault,” John continued, eyes now welling up. “Mary’s dead, and it was all my fault.”

“Hey,” Sherlock said softly, “Come here.” He scooted over very slowly, fussing a little bit with the I.V., till there was space enough on his bed for John to lie down as well, and as much as John was worried about Sherlock being in pain, he really needed comfort right now. He cried silently for a few minutes, allowing himself to feel grief and loss.

“She was….hired to kill for someone,” John went on, sniffing and scrubbing his tears away with his sleeves. “Said she owed him something. Some guy called Moriarty. She was too scared to say his name, but I pushed her.” He squeezed his eyes shut, but then he could see her face on the backs of his eyelids and he had to open them again. “I threatened her, Sherlock, I held a fucking knife at her throat!”

Sherlock was taken aback. He had never known John to be this violent. He must have been really upset. “Then?” he prompted gently, turning ever-so-slightly to look at John’s face. When he winced in pain, John winced too, but he caught John’s hand with his own, nodding his reassurance, and John stayed.

“Then she said his name. And someone shot her.” John said no more. He couldn’t possibly. He’d directly caused the death of someone whom, at one point, he was meant to spend the rest of his life with.

Sherlock merely leaned into him, not knowing what else he could do to comfort him in his current state.

“Moriarty…” he muttered into the quiet room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, that was exhausting to write! This chapter was meant to be up yesterday, but I was going through a minor writer's block, so sorry about that.
> 
> Please let me know what you think, and if you have prompts or fic recs, or just want to say hi, hit me up on my tumblr ohimadeitallup.tumblr.com !
> 
> Thank so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed it!


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John must deal with the aftermath of Mary's death, especially when Sherlock is being so frustratingly difficult to deal with!

It took about a week- a gruelling week, if you were to ask John- but Sherlock was finally free to go home. In said week, the man had cribbed and complained, thrown hissy fits and berated every member of medical staff who had been unlucky enough to visit his ward. It was when Sherlock had almost deduced the size of one of the nurses’ breast implants that John had to step in. After that, the no deductions policy had been put into place, making the colossal git even more impossible to deal with.

Given that Sherlock wasn’t allowed to comment on any of the staff, naturally, his attentions turned to John. That was, in some ways, much worse. He’d point out flaws and strengths and often embarrassing possibilities that may have led to John being who he was now. Loudly. Often in front of the staff. It was on a Friday afternoon that John had had enough.

A previously-not-insulted nurse was doing a routine check on Sherlock’s vitals,

“Given the set of your mouth and your propensity to breathe deeply and evenly, almost rhythmically,” Sherlock had said out of the blue, “I’d say you played a wind instrument. I mean, it could have been due to giving a lot of oral sex-”

“Don’t,” John had interrupted.

“-but you don’t seem the type to have been openly bisexual in your formative years.”

The nurse had made a hasty retreat, specifically not looking John in the eye the whole time. John had promptly gotten up and walked out, going to see about getting Sherlock an early release. After some negotiation (though it required a lot less convincing than he had thought it would), he’d managed to convince the doctor that Sherlock would be fit to leave by Tuesday.

When John told Sherlock the good news, the latter grabbed both sides of his face and kissed him full on the mouth with a loud smack.

John took that as the best thanks he’s ever going to get.

Now, safely back in Baker Street with dusky light filtering through the blinds, Sherlock wanted to set up his microscope all over again, but John put his foot firmly down.

“No sitting up straight, you are to recline at all times until further notice,” he stated.

Sherlock frowned, unused to being ordered around after moving out from his parents’ home a year and a half ago. “And since when do you make the rules?” he grumbled.

“Since today,” John countered, smiling thinly. He knew Sherlock would listen eventually, just that it was so ingrained in him to argue, he almost couldn’t help it. “And you will follow my rules, as long as you live under my roof.”

Sherlock stared blankly, quite taken aback. “ _Your_ roof?” he asked, causing the older man to backtrack quickly.

“I uh- I mean our roof- _Yours_. Your roof.” He turned around and squeezed his eyes shut in embarrassment, wishing the Earth would swallow him whole so he wasn’t here for the awkwardness that was bound to follow. “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath.

They hadn’t really discussed this- John officially moving in. It had been a more-or-less temporary thing, as far as they were concerned. John was “in between jobs” and Sherlock was a “compassionate friend”. Of course they both knew what they were evolving into, but neither was particularly partial to putting it in words. If it was said out loud, it would become official, and John didn’t know if they were ready for that yet.

“Sherlock…” he began.

The latter groaned, exasperated. “We’re about to have a _talk_ , aren’t we?” Sherlock wrinkled his nose, disgusted at the idea of having to use something as mundane as words to sort their issues out.

Sighing, John sat on the other end of the sofa, taking the taller man’s feet into his lap and beginning to stroke the skin there. “This thing,” he said, “This thing between us…whatever it is, it’s bound to become…something else, some day.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes as far back into his head as he could. “Eloquent.”

“Shut up,” John grumbled, then resumed, “You know what I mean, Sherlock.”

“Yes, I do,” Sherlock filled in. “Our friendship has morphed into something much more…affectionate. That, plus the fact that I sucked you off that night with no preamble is quite confusing to you. Add to that my sexual history, and you’ve got a recipe for a disaster. And let’s not even talk about the shooting-”

“ _Sherlock_ ,” John warned. It was still a very sensitive topic, what with all the events that followed, and he wasn’t ready to open that can of worms quite yet.

“Actually, _let’s_ ,” Sherlock declared, straightening up enough that he could take his feet off John’s lap. “Let us talk about the shooting.”

“Don’t,” John warned again, mouth beginning to turn down at the corners.

“Why not? I was the victim, not you. That gives me the right to bring it up any time I please.”

John stiffened at that, jaw clenched as tight as the iron fist around his heart. Between the death of his ex-lover and the almost death of his new lover, his emotions were completely off the charts, to say the very least.

“Why that night? What was the reason?” Sherlock looked around the room for a bit, focussing around the foot of the stairs. “There aren’t any cameras and it was too dark for us to be visible through the window. She couldn’t have known what we’d just done.”

John winced at the mention of her. That fist was beginning to squeeze tighter.

“Nor could Moriarty.” Sherlock still said it as if he were tasting the word, feeling every click and roll of his tongue. “So it wasn’t petty jealousy.”

John’s breathing was beginning to quicken, though he tried hard not to show it.

“Speaking of,” the younger man continued, now oblivious to John’s very presence. “What could he possibly have done for her? What could be so big that she owed him her life, as insignificant as it might have been? That she would risk it to protect him? And why would he pick her? True, she was quite dispensable in the grand scheme of things, but I can’t quite figure out his motive-”

John couldn’t take it anymore.

 _“Shut up!”_ he roared, quickly lowering his voice so as not to alarm the landlady downstairs. He put his head in his palm, elbow rested on his knee. “Fuck you, Sherlock. Fuck you and your overtly inflated ego. You want to talk about the shooting? Fine. I was having one of the best fucking nights of my life. I had had an awful day, but you made it better. And I’m not just talking about the blowjob, Sherlock, I _don’t_ need that from you. It was the talking and the hand holding in public. It felt good. It felt right, and then-”

John had to pause to compose himself. He didn’t dare to look at Sherlock, could already imagine the aghast look on that chiselled face. “And then it was taken away from me. All of it. Now I wish that night hadn’t happened. I wish I hadn’t come down the stairs and I wish we hadn’t gone out. I wish we hadn’t held hands, cause then I might have noticed a laser. I wish I hadn’t been that happy, cause then I might have realised that such happiness can’t come without a price.” He finally turned to look at his friend. “So _no_ , Sherlock, as much as you wish it were true, you _weren’t_ the only victim of that shooting.”

There was complete silence for a moment.

“John!” Sherlock tried to say, but all that came out was a disbelieving whisper. “John, I didn’t mean-”

“Yes, you did.” John got up, storming out and upstairs to his own room. He knew he’d have to go face Sherlock again, make sure he’d fed the genius up before putting him to bed for the night, but for now he wanted nothing more than to spend some time alone.

He hadn’t said goodbye yet.

He walked to the wooden closet in his room. It was nothing spectacular, just some shelves and a hanger bar, but inside it was a small leather bound folder. It was a scrapbook he and Mary had begun working on at the start of their relationship all those years ago. Somewhere along the road, they’d given up on it, intent on relishing the moments instead of preserving them. Now John wished they’d done more of the latter.

He took it out and sat on his bed, crossing his legs and holding it in his lap. The first page was completely blank. They’d planned on doing that page once they were through with the whole book. The second page had a picture from their first date. There was Mary in a lilac dress, blonde hair longer than when he last saw her, curls falling just below her shoulders. He was standing next to her, his face skewed strangely as he tried to pose and take the picture at the same time. They both had nervous smiles on their faces, mostly because John had been about to ask Mary for a second date immediately after the picture was taken.

The next few pages had more photographs from their various dates, the smiles coming more easily, his arm around her now, gradually becoming less tentative and more deliberate. Eventually, there were pictures with their friends, from when they declared themselves to be a couple openly. Then there were pictures of them kissing, both slightly tipsy from whatever alcohol had taken their fancy. There were pictures of places they’d visited together, pictures with his now ex-colleagues from work, from when he’d introduced her as his partner at one of the social gatherings. In all of them, she seemed genuinely happy to be there with him. John had a very hard time reconciling that Mary from all that time ago to the one who-

No. He wouldn’t go down that road. He didn’t want to ruin the fond memories he had of her.

At one point, he turned to a blank page again. The glaring emptiness echoed the hollow of his chest. There would be no more photographs in there. There came a point where they’d stopped taking pictures altogether, and for the life of him, John couldn’t remember why.

Sighing, he reached into the top drawer of his bedside table, grabbing a pen. On that blank page, he scribbled down ‘Mary Morstan, 1978-2010.’

Then he turned back to that empty first page and wrote down three simple words.

‘In Loving Memory.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Agghhh I was meant to update this story much earlier in the week but you know that miniature writer's block I mentioned? That hit in full force last weekend, making me want to almost delete the entire series! Probably because I hadn't planned to kill Mary at first, but then the story wrote itself as it always does. Hence why I didn't dare to touch it until I was ready to write again. But lucky for us, it seems like smoother seas ahead!
> 
> Anyway, I hope you guys are enjoying it so far, and please please let me know what you think in the comments section! I love waking up to your opinions!
> 
> Hit me up on tumblr ohimadeitallup.tumblr.com to drop a fic idea/prompt or even just say hi! I don't bite, I promise. :) (Well not unless you're tender, juicy chicken in which case come here you yummy little thing, you!)
> 
> Thanks for reading! <3


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's apologies are...unconventional, to say the least. But hey, John isn't complaining!

The timid knock drew John out of his reverie.

“It’s open,” he called tiredly, not bothering to raise his voice much.

“John, I-”

“Come here,” John said, and Sherlock complied immediately, closing the door behind him and walking to shuffle on to the bed next to John.

The younger man peeked over to look at the book, but John kept it firmly shut. Maybe one day he would show Sherlock, tell him about her properly. Maybe it would be pointless, seeing as Sherlock already knew her better than John himself. Did he know the Mary that John knew though? The one who had smiled sweetly and saved lives? Maybe they knew two completely different versions of the woman. Either way, the wound was too raw, and John wanted nothing more than to let it heal.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said in a tone very similar to a confession.

“I know,” John replied, getting off the bed and returning the book to his wardrobe. He knew Sherlock would see where he’d hidden it, but he trusted the man enough not to worry about him looking into it.

Returning to bed, he put an arm around Sherlock, pulling him into his side. “I’m sorry too,” he murmured, kissing the top of that messy head, and said messy head tilted back till a plush mouth met his own. John sighed into the kiss, allowing his whole body to melt into the bed and into Sherlock.

“Sometimes,” Sherlock whispered between chaste kisses, “I say things I don’t mean.”

John had to huff a laugh at that. “You mean all the time.”

Sherlock shut him up with another kiss, before pulling back slowly, just looking at John. The younger man had a strange expression on his face, steely eyes glazed over to a dove grey, widening just a little as he seemed to come to a realisation. A single gasp escaped his mouth, but without another word, he leaned in to kiss John soundly again.

This was different, though. This was rougher. This was deep and hard and scrumptious and delightful, and John couldn’t help but respond. On the back of his mind was the worry that this might only be Sherlock’s way of an apology, so John was ready to stop if things went too far. Even so, he couldn’t help the soft moan that escaped from the back of his throat, seemingly without permission.

Sherlock froze at that, pulling back to stare at John for a second, before growling and jumping in again with twice the heat. There were slender hands at John’s neck, thumbs holding his jaw in place, and a furtive tongue bumped against his own, twisting around it. God, John was losing his mind. He should stop now, he really should.

“Sherlock-” he tried to say.

There was another frustrated growl against his mouth and Sherlock grabbed John’s hand and placed it on his own shoulder. That was all the acquiescence John needed. Putting his other hand on Sherlock’s other shoulder, he rolled them both over till he was crouching over the younger man. There was a moment of uncertainty- permission asked, permission given.

It was Sherlock who leaned up to grab John’s head with both hands and pull it down so their lips collided. John moved his hands down to that long, graceful neck, thumbs stroking very gently against the tender skin there. He broke the kiss to brush his lips against one high, razor-edged cheekbone, then exhaled slowly, moving down to trail little kisses along the relatively soft jaw. It was when his mouth moved down to that neck that Sherlock groaned loudly, in a mix of arousal and frustration.

“Will you touch me already?” he demanded, and John looked up and grinned. Sherlock had his famous pouty face on, and John couldn’t help but lean up and give it a little kiss.

“All good things to those who wait,” he teased, resuming his ministrations of his lover’s neck. He noticed this time, how those nimble fingers had left his hair and were now grabbing at the sheets, crumpling them up with the force of his exasperation. Oh how John loved being in control.

John kissed and licked as far down Sherlock’s chest as the worn neck of his t-shirt would allow, then went back up to the junction between jaw and neck on the other side. The temporo-mandibular joint, he remembered his eighth grade Biology teacher mentioning. In an alternate universe, John vaguely thought, he might even be a doctor.

Finally taking pity on the writhing form beneath him, John reached down to the hem of the t-shirt. Before so much as touching it though, he looked up at Sherlock and asked, “May I?”

The latter had his eyes squeezed shut, and merely nodded furiously, not bothering to use words. That was just as well, since his voice might have been the one thing that made John lose control completely. He pulled the hem of the t-shirt up, revealing skin paler than that on Sherlock’s face. He’d seen this before, but this time it was different. This time, every scar was a carving. This time, every bruise was a prayer. This time, Sherlock’s body was a temple, and John was worshiping.

He leaned down, laying sacred kisses at each rib, resting his forehead against the hardened muscle of the abdomen and just breathing for a moment, unbelieving of his own luck.

“John?” Sherlock asked, and that deep voice was made all the deeper by arousal and John felt like he could come just listening to it.

John looked up at that face, taking in the pupils blown wide, cheeks flushed with arousal. He’d seen that before too, but in a completely different context. Maybe, he mused, this might serve as a different high. Maybe then Sherlock wouldn’t need those vile chemicals again. He resumed with the kisses, more fervently this time, still unsure how low Sherlock would be comfortable with him going. Once he’d crossed the belly button, John decided to pull off and climb back up to Sherlock’s face, kissing his mouth sweetly and tenderly this time. When he pulled away, the younger man seemed to follow his own lips before dropping his head back on to the pillow. The dark halo of curls seemed perfectly in place.

“What do you want, Sherlock?” John asked softly, more than willing to give his lover as much or as little as he wanted.

Said lover closed his eyes, squeezing them slightly, seemingly at war with himself. He frowned slightly, and John began to worry.

“Look, we don’t have to-”

“Touch me,” Sherlock interrupted, then opened his eyes. His gaze was clearer now, more confident. “If you don’t mind,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

“Are you sure?” John asked, and Sherlock nodded.

Right. John was good at this. He knew he was. And he also knew that Sherlock had asked him to “touch” him. No sucking, no licking, only touching. The best way to get a man off was to do it the way the man would do it himself. John lay down beside Sherlock, putting one arm below and around his torso, other hand exploring his body. He dragged it up softly, all the way up to Sherlock’s right nipple, gave it a quick flick and brought it back down to stroke his stomach. The way Sherlock arched slightly off the bed was the exact indication he was looking for. He brought his fingers back up, circling the little nub again, deliberately this time, and- there was no other word for it- Sherlock _quivered_. Encouraged, John used his other hand to reach around and play with the other nipple, leaving the younger man gasping desperately. John slowed down a little, kissing Sherlock’s cheek till the latter turned his head to the right and caught John’s mouth. Good. That was good. Sherlock seemed comfortable and quite euphoric.

While they were still kissing, John began to edge his hands down to the waistband of Sherlock’s trousers. He rubbed his palm lower over the fabric experimentally, then pulled back suddenly and stared at Sherlock, an amused glint in his eyes. Whining, Sherlock opened his own eyes, then looked down at where John was touching him and noticed the very hard, very visible erection. And he wouldn’t admit it in public, but Sherlock blushed a lovely shade of pink, and John couldn’t help but laugh out loud. Sherlock’s frown deepened and he pulled back, turning to face away from John and have a sulk.

John stopped laughing immediately, taking the opportunity to place soft kisses at the back of that neck he was coming to love so much.

“How come you turned away, Sweetheart?” he whispered, hot breath raking the shell of Sherlock’s ear and causing him to shiver.

“Don’t coddle me,” Sherlock huffed back, curling into himself.

“Awww,” John cooed teasingly, “Are you embarrassed that I turn you on so much?” He shifted in to spoon his partner, sticking his own front to a long, slouched back.

“Get off me,” Sherlock demanded, still pouting.

“Mmmm, I’d rather get you off.” John snaked his hand to Sherlock’s tummy, dragging it all the way back down to where it was a moment ago.

“John,” Sherlock said, trying to sound threatening, but it all fell apart when John curled his fingers and began to stroke above the fabric. “Ohhh…” came the whisper, as Sherlock leaned his head back, allowing John to put his other arm below it. John’s other hand quickly found its way under the t-shirt to Sherlock’s right nipple, beginning to flick it lightly with his thumb.

The hand on Sherlock’s cock pulled off for a second, before resting on his belt buckle.

“Hey,” he said, calling Sherlock’s attention, “You still want this?”

“Oh for God’s sake!” Sherlock quickly undid his own belt, pushing his trousers down to his knees.

John chuckled slightly, taking in the black boxers and feeling the obviously wet spot on the front. He gave Sherlock’s cock a few cursory strokes, waiting till Sherlock was practically heaving, before quickly reaching up and sliding his hand into the boxers. When his skin touched Sherlock’s, the latter seemed to jolt, leaning his head as far back on to John’s shoulder as he could. John took it slow but firm, swiping at the precome with his thumb and smearing it all over Sherlock’s cock before making a fairly steady grip with his fist and beginning to stroke evenly. What he needed really badly was lube, but there was no way Sherlock was going to let him fetch some out of his duffle bag.

Luckily though, Sherlock seemed too far gone to notice any uncomfortable friction. He was gasping and moaning, uncaring about how noisy he was being, and John absolutely fucking loved it!

“You like that?” he asked, nipping at Sherlock’s earlobe, and the younger man arched completely away, before leaning back harder into John.

“Fuuuuuck,” was all the younger man could say, and John took a huge amount of pride in having brought Sherlock’s usually sharp, intellectual speech down to incoherent swearing.

John picked up the pace, flicking his thumb over the tip of Sherlock’s cock every now and again, revelling in how it made his lover whine. It was when his other hand took hold of that nipple and pinched, that Sherlock arched his back so tightly, John thought he might snap.

“John!” he gasped. “I’m…I’mm…!”

His whole body convulsed, eyes squeezed shut, mouth agape, cock shooting in spurts, and John had seen nothing more beautiful in his entire life. He cradled Sherlock close, stroking him through the orgasm, and keeping it up even after, wringing out every ounce of pleasure he could.

This was what he wanted to live for, John realised. Giving Sherlock so much pleasure, his body literally couldn’t contain it.

Sherlock seemed to melt into a puddle, not moving an inch, and John was left to clean them both up after, as he usually was, in every scenario. When he put the flannel away into the laundry basket, he walked back into his room to find a fast asleep detective snuggled up under his duvet. John couldn’t help but smile fondly.

He could get used to this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Porny porn is porny. I know you've all been waiting for this, and so have I! Finally, all of the smut. I promise more plot in the next chapter, (and more smut in the future, if you guys like this ;) ) just needed to get this out of my system. Summers away from your partner can be so difficult! :(
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoyed this, please do let me know what you think in the comments below! I love having something to wake up to. :D
> 
> Thanks for reading!  
> <3


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